Faith­ful old Met­ters

Geraldton Guardian - - OPINION -

Here is a poem I wrote from mem­o­ries of farm days in Mullewa.

I’m sure many coun­try peo­ple can re­late to it.

The Met­ters Stove

Our Met­ters stove was cream and green,

The black top bright and shin­ing clean.

One could of­ten see where Mother had been,

Not a soiled spot would ever be seen.

The ket­tle would sing and gur­gle all day,

And a large pot of stew was sim­mer­ing away.

Many a roast was baked in that oven,

Cakes and scones came out by the dozen.

In win­ter she warmed our very cold feet,

Af­ter a bath in the tub we were rugged and neat.

Sto­ries were told, some happy, some sad,

We could lis­ten to the cricket if we hadn’t been bad.

The house would be warm as we slept through the storms,

The good old Met­ters would sparkle till dawn.

There were days when the Met­ters would cough and choke,

A house full of dust and jet black smoke.

Ev­ery­one out with sticks to clout the dirty chim­ney, till the soot fell out.

All is clean, the work is done. Gee, us kids, we had great fun!

The years rolled by and times have changed,

The kitchen boasts a new elec­tric range.

That faith­ful old Met­ters once clean and green,

Has taken a trip Down the dusty road, to the rub­bish tip.

Mar­garet Lo­gan,

Bluff Point

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