I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better
Knowledge, sent to where I met him in the kiwifruit, years ago,
He was packing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him,
Just "on spec", addressed as follows: "LesA, the Wallabo".
And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected,
(And I think the same was written with stamps dipped in ink)
'Twas his packing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it:
"Les’s is gone to Africa driving, and his mobile’s lost in the drink."
In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Les
Gone a-driving "down the bush" where true country folk go;
As the Elephants slowly stringing, Les drives behind them singing,
For the bushman’s life has pleasures that the kiwifolk never know.
And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him
In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
And at night the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars.
I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy
Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the coolstore tall,
And the foetid air and suit of the dusty, dirty fruit
Through the open doors floating, spreads its foulness over all.
And in place of lowing lions, I can hear the fiendish rattle
Of the cups and the machines making hurry in the shed,
And the language uninviting of the disgruntles truckers fighting,
Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless emails unread.
And the hurrying growers daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me
As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,
With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,
For kiwifolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.
And I somehow yearn that I'd like to change with Les and learn,
Like to take a turn at driving where the seasons come and go,
While he faced the round eternal of ISG and the journal -
But will he come back, LesA, "The Wallabo".
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