Hits: 3193

We have saved the best for the Last. This poem is the only published poem of Joy VK2EBX. All of Joy's poems are as relevant today as they were when she wrote them. We are so grateful to her daughter Janet King for permission to put these poems on our website. I truly hope everyone enjoys them.

About the Author:

I was born in England, but my husband is a "true-blue" Aussie. Most of our thirty years of married life have been spent in the bush, and we reared a family of six children with very little in the way of "mod-coms" and education via the Correspondence School in the earlier years. We became interested in C.B. radio while living in one remote spot, and we found communication with the rest of Australia a great cure of isolation.

In 1978 we moved to Yeoval, and I obtained an Amateur radio license.

Only one of our children now lives at home, and we currently have four grandchildren.

My hobbies include amateur radio, stamp collecting, crossword puzzles and of course, writing a bit of verse.

I work part time as a teachers' aide at the local Central School

(written by Joy in 1982)



The heat was oppressive, the blowflies hummed loud,
The whirly-winds blew up the dust;
And the plane that the young outback minister flew "
Was the colour of reddish-brown rust.

Three Sundays the little church out in the bush
With the earth and the sky slept in union,
But the fourth Sunday woke with a bustle and stir
For the once-a-month Holy Communion.

The minister, earnest and solemn of face,
His sermon rehearsed and amended;
Flew the battered old plane o'er the featureless plain
As the morning sun slowly ascended.

He bumpily landed, and bounced to a halt
On the runway 'twas hard to define!
As he stepped from the plane he was gripped by a thought!
He'd forgot the Communion Wine!!

The people all waited in chattering groups.
While children played noisily round,
As the parson approached and without more ado
His dilemma began to expound.

A young lad came forward, a freckled-face kid;
"Please sir, my dad's got some home brew.
We live just a little way off from the church,
I could go get a bottle for you."

"Why, thank you, young Tom, that is really most kind."
Off he went at a pretty fast clip,
And returned very quickly with, clutched in his hand,
A bottle of green ginger nip.

The service proceeded. The wine, duly blessed,
Was passed round the small congregation,
But the potency of that nefarious nip
Was the subject of much speculation!

For 'twas said of that brew that a thimble or two
Would lay an ox out in his stable;
So proceedings took on a more boisterous note
As the cup was returned to the table.

The last hymn was warbled with much voice and pep,
Though some reached "Amen" far too soon.
With some of the singers a bit out of step
And most of them quite out of tune!

The organist's playing, so slow and sedate,
Took on a more rollicking beat,
As, the blessing pronounced, the people arose,
To emerge once again in the heat.

The bottle of Communion "nip" had been large,
The number of celebrants small.
The minister sighed as he picked up the cup -
"Tis my duty to finish it all!"

'Twas late when the little plane started it's run,
And shakily climbed in the blue,
And that minister cannot recall to this day
How he sat in the cockpit and flew!

And he still flies his plane in the heat or the rain,
But one thing he'll always opine -
The first thing he always packs into his bag
Is the Holy Communion Wine.