Judgement Day Poem by Don Stratford

The old fella was weary, of that you could tell
as he trudged down the highways wheeling push bike with bell,
collecting old cans and bottles from the edge of the road
to take into the bottle ‘o’ and there to un-load

He was dressed always the same in his faded attire
under a First World War great coat that wouldn’t inspire
you to endear yourself to him in any real way,
and you can be certain of that, 'or so they would say'

It didn’t matter the day or the week, you could tell
He would always be out there without taking a spell
as he went on about his leg-weary job
Filling spud bags for saddle bags that would earn him a bob

Thru the heat and the cold he was always there,
not stopping for anything, not even to stare
at those who would taunt him, who were very unfair?
driving past in their cars because they had their share

A part of the landscape, he was always around
trudging wearily onwards, do tell, I’ll be bound,
Then when he went missing and some time had elapsed
for the town folk to realise he may have collapsed

A small note in the paper was all that was found
to say of this poor fellow he’s no longer around
With just a bare handful to say their goodbyes
all standing together under darkening skies

And as months rolled on all forgotten was he
until headlines appeared, declaring boldly with glee
of the mystery man and his big money tree
left in charities favour - a few Million you see

He has now pride of place in the centre of town
with a plaque in his honour - no more trudging around
To finally rest-up with his dignity to call,
this leg-weary traveller to be admired by all

13 / 7 / 2006