Autumn of our lives
Its Autumn now and its the season
I'm getting old and there's a reason
Were casting off our summers bloom,
Amongst falling leaves I feel in tune
Leaves are falling, disrobing the tree
My hair turning silver, in sympathy
Winds of change are in the air
Stripping us of our summer flare
A gunmetal sky at mornings half light
Heralds the winters darkest night
No birds sing to welcome the day
Migrations begun they're on their way
Second year branches they start breaking
Like my old bones they start aching
We both are rooted to this place
Together the winter we will face
poem by Bob Gibson
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The sea gipsy
The sea gipsy
she's anchored in our sheltered bay, a fishing boat tonight will stay
a forard mooring rope made fast, engine's cut, anchor cast
light is failing, silhouettes, casts shadows of old fishing nets
atop the mast a solitary light, a beacon, throughout the night
with the tides rise and fall, she swings on the anchor's maul
waves lapping against her hull, oblivious to a wandering gull
decks are clear, gear stored, sleep comes to those aboard
on the morrow, at dawns first light, the eastern sun chases the night
movement aboard this working craft, is witnessed forard and abaft
now in the bright light of day, the gipsy prepares to get under way
lines are hauled, the engines started, the gipsy now, has departed
steaming to the fishing grounds, through the reefs and outer sounds
poem by Bob Gibson
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Christmas without Dad
I want my Dad! i started to cry
why did he have to go and die?
Christmas without him is not the same
i need someone to take the blame!
i see my Mum sat all alone
looking at a silent phone
he'd ring as he left his job
she'd put the kettle on the hob
To night the phone it never rung
the hours past but he didn't come
a policeman standing at the door
my mothers eyes began to pour
Mum looked at me, and held me tight
through tearful eyes, a smile, in sight!
come on get dressed, were going out
Dad wouldn't want us sitting about
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poem by Bob Gibson
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Saltburn
I used to watch the fishermen, go out from Saltburn sands
Their cobbles loaded up with nets and long lines in their hands
The lobster pots were up forard, with the markers and the picks
Going to the fishing grounds, they knew all the tricks
They wore a woolen jersey and a yellow vinyl coat
A sow wester when it was raining, or a beanie in the boat
I used to watch them coming home, from the fishing bed
A wave pushing his beam, i loved my uncle Fred
The cobbles they were sturdy boats overlapped you see
Corked with tar to seal them from the northern sea
I've seen them in the water when storms are about ter burst
Disappearing beneath a wave, it's what they fear the worst
Up she comes with the spray, there oars are digging deep
Just longing for some dry clothes and someones arm's to sleep
I've seen them on the good days, . when a bountiful catch is landed
I heard them in the pub that night tall tales, They expanded
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poem by Bob Gibson
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The long nosed ridged backed swamp whippet
We had to leave new Zealand shores, in rain an snow an fog
just me and my adversary by that I mean my dog!
a pig dog was Dorothy, a holder of the best
the first to feel the tusk, she would never let it rest
teeth barded she would attack, from front or from the rear
she grabbed at their extremities to her she knew no fear
we landed on the Aussie shores, an to the great out back
we slept amongst the stars at night where the abbo's track
we came upon a wayside pub, we were tired and dry
our swag a burden on our backs at night beneath the sky
the landlord said to me, is that a fighting dog?
I said with a grimace, with a chance she would!
I have a dog out beyond, will you take a bet on him!
landlord for free beer I'll even let him sing!
out the back the landlords dog was long and lean and thin
I'd never seen the likes of him or anything close to him!
what kind of dog is that I said, for sure I'd never seen
It’s a 'long nosed ridged backed swamp whippet'
and for a fight he's very keen!
Dorothy, looked at him then looked again at me
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poem by Bob Gibson
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