The Forgotten.

Riverboat at Goolwa…by Sue Caporn.

The Forgotten.

An “E-Book” of short stories.

All the stories here are based on true events I have witnessed or have been told by friends and relatives…I have tried to portray, through men’s and women’s eyes the courage and overcoming against particular conflicts and problems, big and small.

These people I hold to be the true grit of society, be they right or wrong, at least they try..and sometimes succeed..may they never be discouraged or defeated even though they may well be forgotten..

“And I ponder why it’s always encouraged,

That we pluck the prettiest flowers

And leave the weeds to flourish.”

Amelia di Cielo and the Blackmailer.

The story below is from an age of a kind of fading feudalism…an age when position and religion ruled the small villages dotted amongst the Dolomites of Northern Italy. It was told by my father to my mother and then to me. It is from around the turn of the 20th  century, when the church … Continue reading

The Jewel of the Eye.

The farmhand held the burly sheep tightly by its head and rump. The farmer lay his two hands flat, side by side on the sheep’s back and pressing, spread the dusty coloured fleece to reveal the glowing, creamy fibres beneath. The thick, smooth fleece seemed to glow with health. You could smell the lanolin. The … Continue reading

The Exile of Celia Adamson.

I’ll tell you a story..A story of two people who became lovers when of an age where one would never expect such a event to ever again enter one’s life…Two people from that older generation that we had come to think of as staid, conservative and settled.. emotions suppressed under an obligation and habit of … Continue reading

To The Lighthouse.

“One must forgive the young their foolishness, for without them, there would not seem so much wisdom in old age.”…Socrates. Ah!..Friday nights, didn’t we look forward to them. But we were young and carefree in those days. A group of us young bucks would meet after work at the Seacliff Hotel on Fridays and imbibe … Continue reading

A Trivial Enquiry.

Here’s a light-hearted little yarn for a Saturdee arvo. A Melbourne story. It is true in every way, myself witnessing some of it. A Trivial Inquiry. Peter Haffney took his latch-key from the deadlock and closed the front door behind him. He paused inside the entrance as one is want to do when first coming … Continue reading

The Rose and The Plough.

Image result for Pic of rose-bush under a window.
Image result for Pic of rose-bush under a window.

In the back-blocks of the mallee

‘Neath Mrs. MacFarlane’s sill,

Grew a rose bush many years ago,

(I ponder it’s there still?).

“ ‘Twas planted for my Louise

When she was newly born.

I mark the contrast of the rose:

The blossom above the thorn!”

MacFarlane ploughed the dry soil of that block

With machines tended of sweat and tears.

While Louise blossomed with the rose

All through her growing years.

But age slowly wearied him,

The years of labour took their toll.

So young Tim Brey that season worked the plough

And a bumper crop did sow.

Creeping fingers of evening shadow

Edged ’round mallee scrub and tree,

As Tim drove through the station gate

And Louise, he did suddenly “see”.

One warm evening ‘neath a mallee tree,

With the harvesting finally done,

The “old man” grumbled toward the house

While Tim and Louise talked on alone.

A silence fell after all was talked about

With dusk thru’ dust aglow.

Tim clasped the bough above her head

And leant toward his “rose”…

…The wind would move the fields of grain,

A swollen swirling “sea”:

Of “ebb and flow” in the crops

On the Breys’ new property…

Themselves now grown so old,

Their children too have flown.

But still the rose bush given

For their wedding blossoms on.

The mallee is not so prosperous,

The price has gone from wheat.

The farm is dusty, the house too old;

Deep lines fan Louise’s cheek.

Tim Brey harrows still with his plough

The “home paddock” into rows,

While Louise battles with their accounts,

As dust silently falls-on the petals-of the rose.

Fields of Deceit.

  “For the farmer sows his fields Of barley, oats or wheat. While the lawyer reaps fortune From fields of deceit.” Brian Pascoe leant forward in the soft leather chair with one arm on the lawyer’s desk and the other hand on his knee. His brow was knitted and he felt his anger raising as … Continue reading

Carmello Comes Home.

The plight of the “escaping from warfare refugee” has figured large over the last few years with much sympathy, while the “economic refugee”has been somewhat scorned as an “opportunist”…I can assure many that it is far from true..the desperation and need can be felt  equally by the “starving stayers” as by the fleeing desperates..and it … Continue reading

Little Window on the Western Wall.

My little window on the western wall,
Opens out on the whole wide world.
It opens out on the mallee plains,
It opens out to the summer rains.

It opens out on a sonorous dawn,
With it’s promising colours in pastel tones.
And embraces within all sorrows and joys,
In silent parade past my western wall.

Flowers of Spring as the seasons go,
Winter wild, Summer mellow.
Fields below the farmer sows,
Crops in serried paddock rows.

A child cries out! A strange bird sings,
Through the sphere of silence rings.
A whiff of desire of a memoried dream?
Against the clatter of urbanity.

Upon a highway that cuts the view,
Cars sweep past in the morning new.
That with the deepening, darkening dusk,
Wearily steal back home to rest.


My little window on the western wall
Opens out on the whole wide world,
And within its embracing vision deep,
I watch the world wake..I see it sleep.

The Resurrection of Herbert Griegs.

I have a war story..well, not actually about war itself, but about how it broke and remade a life…It is a true story and was told to me by Darcy C. an old farmer who lived on the farm next  to us ( in my first marriage) in the hills. He was one of those … Continue reading

End of Stories.

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