Belting down Arundel road in Mid Canterbury
Lined with macrocarpa hedges, sheep and dry stubble
Magnificent peaks rise from the ground beside me, shimmering and hazy
Flashing past lamp posts and letter boxs
The Canterbury plain, wide, flat, dry, seemingly endless
Aged 7 or 8, knuckles attached to the wheel, smile long as the road
Driving that Mark 3 Zephyr which seemed to fly, doing 103
Gripping that steering wheel, sitting secure on dad's knee
Dad smelled of dad, how I love that smell
We'd been to the Good's or the Cox's or some such cocky
With stories to tell
Sheep to sell
Dad would stand at the gate with pebbles in his hand
Like magic counting the mad flying sheep as they flew past
With Dan or Joe barking like hell, jumping on there backs
It was all go, not a time to relax
Brushing past that stinging nettle that I could never avoid
The bloody stuff seemed to follow me where ever I went
Hidden in the sheep yards, horrible weed with the spiky leaf
Christ it itched like hell no matter how much I gritted my teeth
I loved to explore, old machinery that smelled of diesel and grease
Broken down, weary, covered in bird shit and straw
Chicken coops, lopsided hay barns, favourite of all was the shearing shed, I loved it in there
It smelt of sheep shit, wool, sweat and old beer
If lucky an ice-cream on the way home, to awake in the driveway warm and tired
Jed, lamb roast and goo pudding.
Arundel, I still ride on you, long impossibly straight.
Arundel a road to remember.
