The Tale Of 'Yogi Mellon' - Poem by Darryl Hetherington
The wattle’s fragrance near the billabong
Arrives on the gentle morning breeze,
And brings an eerie feeling…. Strong,
That voices murmur in these trees.
Telling stories of this place,
O’re countless passing days and nights.
Of a ancient proud but dying race,
Who knew the dreamtime, and min min lights.
Tis home to one who’s path met mine,
On a morning trek with a mate to town
To gain our fill of cheap red wine….
We were almost there when she slowed down
A dusty battered Holden wreck.
A woman driver, a pet Dingo.
We thought she’d probably stopped to check,
And ask us blokes which way to go.
Me gob dropped open when I heard her speak!
Like a bullock driver yellin’
Using swear words …Quite unique
I’d come face to face with Celina Mellon!
Her name is ‘Yogi’ to her mates,
A tomboy true, with a cocky stride,
Walkin fences and ridin on gates,
But a beauty hides inside….
The daughter of a bloke well known,
From east to west and down the track,
Many a bushman’s skill he’d shown
And earned respect to Bourke and back.
When blokes gathered round the campfire glow,
To hear the stories of rugged outback fame.
The ones the youngun’s would want to know,
Would bear that Paddy Mellon’s name.
Now that his ridin days are past,
She really wants to keep alive
The story, that she hopes will last
So on a book she plans to strive
There’s not to many get to see
Past the outside when she comes along,
But I’m glad she showed to me…
This place she loves… by the billabong.
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