Grandpa’s backyard When I think of the backyard at my Grandpa’s I see… Pumpkins lying on the ground waiting to be picked. Beanstalks struggling to stay up with the weight of all their beans, Tomato plants with fruit so juicy they need poles to help stand up, Dare-devil flies that stick to your mouth, your cuts, everything! I hear… The tractor chugging along, spluttering as it misses a beat, The hens announcing to the world they’ve laid an egg, Cows mooing against being locked up in the yards, Dogs barking, as they jump about playfully. I taste… The freshness of crisp, crunchy beans, A sweet, ripe tomato as its juice dribbles down my chin, The warm creaminess of milk squirted straight from the cow’s teats And the flush, fresh country air. I smell… Spilt soured milk mixed with iodine and soap, The rotting grain spilt by the cows forgetting their manners, The ‘fleshie’ smell that is the farm (all farmers smell like this!) I feel… ‘Shimmery’ as I put the machines on the cows teats, Excited as the wind hits my face Riding down the lane on the back of the ute, And the grime on my skin after a hard day’s work. As I go to sleep, the moon shines on the backyard. I hear peaceful sounds of birds chirping, Cows mooing gracefully, and Dogs barking at the moon and each other. Uncle Peter gets up so early we’re still fast asleep, My brothers stir, waking me up to turn the lamp on, We talk about the first thing that comes to our heads – usually nonsense! We try to be quiet, Then we hear Grandpa getting up for a cup of tea, At last, it’s our turn!