LITMIR.BIZ

      First published in 2003 by Poseidon Books http://www.poseidonbooks.com An imprint of Zeus Publications P.O. Box 2554,

      Burleigh MDC Qld. 4220

      Australia

      ©Gary Blinco 2003

      Under the Harvest Moon

      Drunk with the harvest moon, Our hearts are not our own; As nature’s creatures swoon, I walk with you alone.

      Pale gum tips etched in silver, Shimmer upon the bough, We stroll beside the river, Through yesterdays and now.

      Under the harvest moon, We dream of future years; But morning comes too soon, Renewing pain and tears. We shed our precious lives, And failed visions bloom; Where secret passion thrives, Under the harvest moon.

      The long wet purple shadows, Engulf the silent stream, And all our little sorrows, Recede behind a dream.

      Soft hues of grey and white, Deny the unreal day. The deepness of the night; Holds future pains at bay.

      Under the harvest moon, We dream of future years; But morning comes too soon, Renewing pain and tears. We shed our precious lives, And failed visions bloom; Where secret passion thrives, Under the harvest moon.

      Pale fields of stubble sprawl, Against the darkened sky; And nature’s ravaged call; Comes as a plaintive cry. Land raped without regret, Speaks out with one accord; But blind hearts soon forget. Man ekes his own reward.

      Under the harvest moon, We dream of future years; But morning comes too soon, Renewing pain and tears. We shed our precious lives, And failed visions bloom; Where secret passion thrives, Under the harvest moon.

      Deep night as shadows creep, And weave a dark cocoon, That lulls the world to sleep; Under the harvest moon.

      But dawn must come at last, Night’s veils are drawn away; We turn and leave the past, For the wonder of today.

      Under the harvest moon, We dream of future years; But morning comes too soon, Renewing pain and tears. We shed our precious lives, And failed visions bloom; Where secret passion thrives, Under the harvest moon.

      DEDICATION

      This book is dedicated to those salt-of-the-earth souls on the Darling Downs who shaped my beginnings — I hope you see yourselves somewhere in this book.

      Acknowledgments

      My thanks to Mary Weaver for editing the manuscript and providing her usual frank and constructive feedback during the writing of this book.

      CHAPTER ONE

      The rising sun shared the heavens with a pale full moon that still hung low in the western sky as dawn claimed the land, and, for a short interlude, the world hung uncertainly between night and day. Lennie Symons drove slowly along the narrow country lane in his battered old ex-army jeep, taking frequent backward glances to ensure that the driver of the harvester was still following his lead.

      It had been a dry night. The usual heavy dew had not appeared to moisten the crop and delay the harvest, and Lennie knew the plant would be able to commence working as soon as they reached the paddock of ripe wheat. Lennie was a fourth generation Symons, a descendent of a proud family of pioneers who had carved thriving sheep and cattle farms from the once raw bushland on the Darling Downs in south-east Queensland.

      The clan now focused on grain growing, the younger generation having decided that cereal crops provided a higher return for less effort. They had endured some setbacks from poor seasons, due to droughts or floods, but now the years of land clearing and struggle were being rewarded. The harvest of 1957 was well under way, and it looked like being a record crop, the first really successful season since the change from livestock to grain.

      Lennie had been sent to university to study agriculture, and his father was disappointed at the time when he switched courses after six months, finally majoring in literature and fine arts. But the disappointment was short lived when, after graduation, Lennie returned to the farm and displayed a talent for lateral thinking and planning. He now worked on the huge property as an administrator, studying and coordinating crop rotation techniques, and planning a genetically sound breeding program for the farm’s remaining cattle and sheep.

      His academic musings and meticulous systems did not sit too well with his four brothers. They felt that Lennie was the favoured and anointed son and that he had been given opportunities that were denied them in the early days. But they could not deny the soundness of his methods. The results showed in the success of the farm, and this record year would validate his systems conclusively. When the pressures of the planting season or the harvest were relaxed, Lennie liked to paint and write. His brothers did not regard this as real work, and it fuelled the animosity that festered in their hearts.

      Despite the constancy of his responsibilities and the resentment of his brothers, Lennie loved the bush and the rough farming life. Perhaps this was because his artist’s eyes saw beauty and feeling in the land that the others missed. He did not just see the land as a raw resource from which to make money. Rather, he saw the beauty and agelessness of the land, and he was determined to conserve as much of the natural bush as he could. He tried to keep some sensible controls over the clearing process as the move from cattle and sheep raising to grain cropping advanced.

      Many of the farmers tore down the scrub with reckless abandon, but Lennie had insisted on a controlled and well- planned program as the land was being cleared for crops. As a result, the property was covered in a patchwork of cultivation paddocks, regularly punctuated with belts of natural timber, all interconnected from the low hills down to the various watercourses that drained the farm. Lennie advocated a balanced approach with a long-term plan and fortunately his father supported his views. If his brothers had their way, the land would be devoid of all trees except for a few lines of gums along the public roads which were protected from their bulldozers.

      Of course Lennie had not lived through the desperately hard years of pioneering, droughts, floods and economic depression that had plagued his forebears, and his romantic ideals had never been tested like those of his father and older brothers. But still there was a special bond between Lennie and this land and it seized him now as he took in the smells of the bush. The scent of the wildflowers along the lane and the creek bank mingled with the musty aroma of the ripe grain that rippled in long furrows as a light wind raced across the field, moaning in the trees and dancing through the crops. The little breeze carried strange sweet marine smells up from the nearby creek, smells of fish and water birds and decaying vegetation along the water’s edge. He had known these special scents all his life. He associated them with the solitude of the bush and the quiet rural life he loved.

      Lennie

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