‘Tractor Drifting’
By Dan Buckley
The Tractor, The Huon Valley Volvo,
All things to…most men.
Other than trekking Cradle Mountain in budgies,
Or chain-sawing on the sauce,
Best way to meet your own end.
Or, at a minimum, throw away useful limbs,
Bid hooroo to organs you employed moments earlier.
Second-hand green machine JD,
Licence, registration, seatbelt, free.
Free from safety manuals,
Free from supervision, free of a spare key,
Free of enough fuel to park her out the back.
Five minute ‘refresher’ from a neighbour,
I’m un-good to go.
First crack. I’ve got her drifting.
Good news, in a tuned-up Torana,
On a flat bitumen pitch,
Surrounded by UDL drinking yahoos.
Concerning, if sideways to a grassy knoll,
Under a greasy-mist rain,
Surrounded by indifferent grass chewers.
Cutter on full throttle,
Delivers a kind of wild, random stabbing
To some very surprised, now frightened, yellowing grass.
Heavy back tires ensure
Paddock’s full of flattened, uncut parallel tracks,
That ‘phoenix’ the moment tractor’s been homed n’ hosed.
Resembles the half-sucked mango seed haircut of my youth.
Slasher, ludicrously unfit for purpose,
Unfathomably oversized and heavy.
Covered on all sides, so as not to revel its winged keel,
Or other close guarded, grass business secret.
Like Toddler Scissorhands, on rat-sack laced amphetamines,
‘Mowing’ leaves behind sticky out bits, jack-in-the-box weeds.
Shared communal shame visits Valley’s real men.
Forward and reverse pedals
Stick close to one another for security, fraternity.
Wide, heavy boots cause
The new, used, old girl, to groan,
Frustrated by indecisive direction,
Anxious under the vague intentions
Of an old, fresh, amateur, quasi workman’s hands.
Steep hill descents
Shoots me ticker north,
Cramping the uvula’s style n’ space.
At least the cartooned size differential
Of unmatched wheel pairs
Remain connected to the clover,
The cape weeds, the daffodil, the bracken.
Ascent thrills, I’m chucking a ‘duo’.
Tiny front training wheels head vertical.
Almost cool, gnarly.
If I was a 17-year-old thrill seeker,
On a considerably smaller machine,
With a helmet,
Had some control…
A better make n’ model than either neighbour could boast,
Yet none of my paddocks resemble Ann’s green gables.
I survey the scarred landscape with self-gendered disgust.
Quietly start the ride-on,
Re-visit the crime scene,
In twilight, on mild revs.
Automatic lights unmasking my mow of shame.
* * * *
Dan Buckley is a stay-at-home conservationist, part-time farmer, casual dad, and full-time writer. He is currently working on a second book of poems and his first novel. A proud Huon Valley local, when not writing, Dan pulls out weeds, picks up animal poo, feeds chooks, chases miniature goats, and brushes oils through his beard. Follow him on Instagram: @craplumberjack.
