He’s fencing alone on a hot summer day              

and sees billows of dust just over the  way.

Rumbling along without any fuss

exactly on time, he sees the school bus.

It’s travelled that road since his kids were knee-high;

it’s hard to believe how the years have sped by.

His grey eyes cloud over as memory kicks in –

now he’s seven years old, all freckles and grin.

Three kids on a horse loved to kick up the dust

but  not nearly as much as the modern school bus.

That horse and the kids felt the same about school,

slow there, gallop home was the usual rule.

But time marches on and none there to waste;

boarding school was more to his parents’ taste.

The least said about that, he thinks to himself.

He was sent, he went and remained in good health.

He returned to work with his uncle and Dad;

most years were good, some heartbreakingly bad.

His children’s travel he’d always discuss

till government had to provide a school bus.

Then, the eventual closure of all the small schools,

and the changing of bus routes, drivers and rules.

School buses took children on to the next town

where more buses brought kids from further around.

No children now on farms near this bloke;

these days his neighbours are elderly folk.

Young families live here? His own children don’t.

They say they might, but they probably won’t.

It’s the last day the bus will be passing his land.

He stands erect, wire coiled in his hand

to salute the settling dust on the road.

Farewell to the faithful school bus and its load.

© Jan Lewis 2003