Inheritance

Bigger than Christmas,

the Borroloola Rodeo announces

     itself with a mushrooming of camps

     as show trucks and outstations

chorus below a starlit big dipper

out on the edges of town:

     I unroll my swag

with Buffalos—the Gudanji mob

     from Bauhinia Downs, Cow Lagoon

     and Devil Springs—where this year’s mood

is a carousel cracker in acclaim:

at the camp centre

     a 55-gallon drum is suspended

     between the forks of two trees

                    by ropes bound

     to their anchor points

     with the neatest of figure-eights;

a mastery of makeshift mechanical bull:

     out on the edges

the kids practice their hondas,

     an overhand knot with a stopper

     at the end threaded through

and tightened down

     to form a nearly-perfect halo,

the lasso is a dream flung

                    bang-on:

throughout our camp

tarpaulins hover like magic carpets

     giving shade and privacy

as ropes and uprights are fastened

                    with rolling hitches—

     a season’s banked domestic security:

and this year our ropes lash

          together such calm relief

     in the managed risk of a rodeo’s spills:

     this year we are spared

the dawn drop and swing

when the rope is laid down

                    in a wide sideways “S”,

     the end wrapped round thirteen

times to form a loop tightened

for the end:

this year

     when dawn breaks

the bull rider’s eight second rattle

          is our only breathless

                                   yield.

Phillip Hall