A poem for those gone not forgotten
THE first Sunday in October,
we congregate respectfully as one. To honour those departed, their driving day’s now done.
No more the sigh of air brakes,
disturb them from their rest.
Among the brilliant star-filled skies, watching over us at best. They taught us all the transport game,
of what would see us through. Do it right the first time, she’ll be right will never do.
Leathered hands grip quad box sticks, and change gear in a blur. Hours of staring gaze through windscreens, thoughts of home and that special him or her.
For a truckie’s life holds fascination, out where the heatwaves dance.
We come together like no other, that long black road romance.
Sisters and brothers of the highway, a helping hand our only code.
A passing wave out through the windscreen, sends greeting and safe passage to each and every load. From high up in the cabin, we observe Mother Nature rule her land.
Drought, fire, flood and determination, she is the driver, well in command.
Where would we be without them, the ones that haul the loads on through.
From bullockies of old, the teamsters, to flash jiggers of today tried and true.
To them the school of hard knocks, get it done by the sweat of their brow.
With recall and respect of hardship, we thank heavens for the things we have now.
Yesteryear can never be forgotten, we must pledge an allegiance to those passed.
Their truck driving legacy rolls forever onward, our future carved in stone from the past. — Penned by Owen Orange