Here’s to a Legend

They talk in awe in Launceston of the floods of ‘29
And the rains that came and caused such disarray –
How a peak tide coincided while the heavens were divided
And the Tamar cut the town from Invermay …

And all along the riverfront the waters swirled and rose
With a sucking, rushing terrifying sound –
Like ants the people scattered and only one thing mattered:
To beat a fast retreat to higher ground –

But one man went against the flow from his home on Mowbray’s ridge
He leapt onto his pushbike and rode towards the bridge
For years he’d worked at Boags – drove the brewer’s dray round town:
He knew his Clydesdales in the stables there would more than likely drown …

He reached the bridge and pedalled on, the waters now waist-deep
Halfway across his bike was gone and the odds were looking steep -
But guided by the railings he swam and clawed his way
Till he reached the other side of the bridge at Invermay …

And the horses in the stables saw a figure wading near
And his presence calmed them greatly and soothed away their fear
As he gently slipped their bridles on and stroked each massive face
Then led them through the flooded streets to a safer, higher place …

They still look back in Launceston to the floods of ‘29
And Wizard Smith’s brave act upon the day –
And how he was rewarded with a job for life at Boags
And the pride with which he drove the brewer’s dray …

And I even now imagine on a wet and wintry night
If I stood there by the river with the brewery in sight
I might spy a misty figure perched high upon a dray
With four big Clydesdales crossing the bridge at Invermay.




John McCallum
2010