Story Teller Poem by debbie gregory

Our home was a tarp in the shape of a tent
no walls of plaster no floors of cement

Highwats no where to be found
no shops no schools just trees and dirt all around

Our days would pass with chores to be done
traps to be checked and rabbits collected
gutted and skinned and put in the chiller

Dads of to the station to bring back a killer
a killer will feed us for the next three weeks

Dad hunted rabbits to pay the bills in the hot summer days
and the cold winter chills

The cook yells out loud
that it's wood that i need
if i dont get it soon
you wont get a feed
so it's off to the wood pile we all head
with the scent in the air of freshly baked bread

It's lunch time now
it; s bully beef again
we dont mined and never complain

At least we had a feed in our guts
what we dont eat we'd slip to the muts

At sun down the traps we would set
a dozen rabbits in the morning we'd get

With traps all set and time to spare
we'd lie by the camp fire
at the stars we would stare

Stories dad told of the days as a lad
of depression and the wars that was had

His stories are memories of the life he chose to live
to hear him tell them now
'all I have I would give'

The memories have faded the stories long gone
Iv'e heard similar stories
some not bad

But as long as i live
I'll never find a story teller like my DAD