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A sunbaked Aussie farmer,
Twartzie was his name.
His family came from Europe,
Endured the wartime shame.
His time was spent in labour,
That tad from dawn to dark.
In wrestling with the livestock,
The crops and debt and dearth.
But then there were the Sundays,
Of prayer and haunting hymns.
A luncheon with the family,
Time to rest within.
A spell to spend; renew his strength,
Indulge his secret whim.
For Twartzie was a leather man,
Endowed with towering skill.
He made the meanest stockwhip,
Sleek beauty serpentine.
We kids would come and raptly sit,
Entrapped;
By flashing hands and mind.
Enthralled at dextrous plaiting,
With thongs of finest hide.
Veneered on hand carved handle,
Swooped down in tapered pride.
A strength produced by layers,
Of bark tanned braided skive.
Oiled stretched and graded,
For smoothest strongest life.
This deftly crafted marvel,
Grew smoothly by the hour.
Until if laid down end to end.
In the softly dusty soil.
The shining snaking stockwhip,
And object of our thrall.
Stretched out in all its glory.
Could more than span us all.
At last the horsehair whipcord,
Was firmly knotted on.
Fastened by a tapered warp,
Of tough grained leathern thong.
And so we learned the echo,
The ringing popping song.
A stockwhip's daunting majesty,
That guides the cattle home.
Ignatius Writealot
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