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My only poem...


The train goes rattling down the track
A trail of smoke is at your back.
A spot of soot may close your eye,
To miss the gums as they fly by.

The porter shouts "All tickets please",
To check that all have paid their fees,
The engine driver blows his whistle,
As the view converts to thistle.

Out on the verandah the children play,
"Come inside", the parents say.
From the windows they hang around,
Not a care is to be found.

Traveling onward 'round the bends,
A joyous journey with our friends.
Then at last our stop we reach;
Hooray! Hooray! It is the beach.

Eric Rodda  - 1996

My fathers poem, written at the age of ten.


Oh! how I wish to be with the trees
When at Blackwood in the breeze,
And when roaming up and down the hillside steep            
Where the wind comes over with a sweep.

When walking with a gun in hand,
and see a rabbit run over the land.
Now to lie down on the grass so green,
to fire for a meal so lean.

When mushrooms come up to view,
I go out with a knife to find one or two,
If I am lucky I may find a few.
But if I'm not I'll only get a boo.

Keith Rodda - June 24, 1936

Then on the return to Blackwood two years later...


It's come it's come, true to me,
That wish I made long ago
of that town that filled me up with glee.
This one may have it's splendors
But not the same to me.
All my service would I render
To get back to that spot
Blackwood the place for me.

Keith Rodda - 1938



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