Memories Of Bundanoon: The Farmer's Carry Poem by Greg Davidson

He grips the weight,
Bent at the knees,
And waits for the whistle blow.

He lifts his head
And feels the strain,
Starter blows the whistle. Go!

Staccato steps,
And shortened stride,
He toddles off toward the peg.

Momentum high
He rounds it wide,
Then charges down the second leg.

It's clear, the strain
Writ on his face,
As muscles in his arms cry out.

Now watching close
The crowd around,
For encouragement give shout.

The second peg,
Around he goes,
As slowly his momentum flags.

He stops, the leg
But half complete.
Weights drop to ground. He sags.

Cheers from the crowd.
Again he bends,
Pain writ clear upon his face.

The crowd now stands.
He totters on,
Slow at first, he gathers pace.

Stride resolute,
Eyes fixed ahead,
Determined that he will not stop.

Then from the crowd,
A victory cheer.
Weights and knees and shoulders drop.

The whistle blown,
The time is checked,
Exhausted now, his day is done.

A lesson then for all of us,
To learn from how the race was run.
It's not the treasure at the end we win,
But the measure of the race within.