Stirrup iron to stirrup ironThey rode the dusty track,She sat upon the dapple greyHe rode the fiery black.

They pushed along at a faster trotTo beat the fading light,Behind them lay 30 milesof running from the night.

The haunting thoughts of the dark eventsSeemed to lurk close all dayIn the urgent beat of the horse’s feetOn the dry and stony clay.

But Oh! how a man’s heartCan turn him far away,From what he knows is rightAnd how he finds his way

And in that moment of beating prideHe throws his weight around,To break and bust his very worldAnd leave a man on the ground.

While she is caught in a rushing streamOf regrets and hopes and fear,While the long dusk shadows wheel them onThrough the tall forests so near.

The horses seem caught in the very moodAnd hardly show the strain,Of pushing hard all day longAnd the black still leans on curb and chain.

He knows the country pretty wellFrom working stock and plant,As a keen young blonde haired blokeIn old Mac’s mustering camp.

As now they climb the snowgum ridgeThe horses show the foam,And push along the old wing fenceWhere the bucks were turned for home.

It can’t be far to that sheltered hollowAnd the bleached and leaning hut,By a spring-fed mountain streamWhere the days long ride will cut.

And in a moment of feeling free and wildFrom the burdens of his trials,He gives the black his fiery headand puts him at the rails.

But the spring in his horse is nearly doneAnd he clips the top of the fence,To land in a messy heapOf man and leather and beast.

And now, in their own good timeHer thoughts return to where he lay,It may be 50 years down the trackBut it still takes her breath away.

For even now she feels the passionAs she sits in the old cane chair,Dappled by the golden grapesIn the cool verandah air.

While in the yard the boisterous kidsRomp with the dogs at play,And together with the old grey womanEnjoy their youth’s bright day.