On Old Albany Road

The warm smell of bread in the mist and the smoke,
matches the cheer of the grocery bloke,
who is busily setting up shop for the day,
as a wagon comes rolling from Albany way.

On Albany Road as a freckly kid
smiles at the milko adjusting the lid,
of the billy can brimming, so creamy and white;
sister Ivy is stroking the mare on the right.

The penny they spend on the Albany Road,
rattles a purse in a humble abode,
and will jingle the till of the quaint butcher shop,
as the change for old Nanna Brown’s sausage and chop.

The Smithy accepting the fish from a man,
passes the penny and takes down a pan,
while his teapot is welcome to one and to all,
with a joke and a yarn for whomever should call.

The penny is warm from the palm of the girl,
who gives with a “Thank you” – grins with a swirl,
running happily home, bringing bread for the toast,
with fresh butter and jam, of which Dad will have most.

On Albany Road as the penny goes round
tables and counters there’s joy at the sound,
and a warming of souls at the take and the give,
of reciprocal values of ‘live and let live’.

For hundreds of miles from the north to the south,
good local money, is food in the mouth
of the farmer, the postie, the teacher, the nun,
of the kids in the bush and the towns – everyone.

Our concrete and bitumen highway today
serves as a means to whisk dollars away
to a man overseas, with a screen and a mouse,
who is raising the rent, on what once was her house.

The sight of the old copper coin in the sand,
is warm to her heart, and warm to her hand,
as old Ivy Jean Amity nuzzles a mane,
and is skipping down Albany Road once again.

© Wayne Pantall 16/8/05