Smoko

On the farm morning and afternoon tea were referred to as "smoko". The wife would take a thermos of tea and homemade cake to the field where her husband was working, calling out "smoko!"

“SMOKO!”

 

He waits to hear the call “smoko”,

Sweat from his brow, he wipes,

Then looks to where he rotary hoed,

And slowly lights his pipe.

 

He feels the pain cut like a knife,

A well-earned rest he takes

And waits the call of his dear wife;

Of smoko they’ll partake.

 

She’s been to him a loyal friend,

A wife and soul mate too;

He vows to love her to the end;

Leave him, she would not do.

 

He waits to hear the call “smoko”,

And looks towards the house;

Beside the gate a figure shows,

Could this be his dear spouse?

 

Upon the earth, no footsteps sound,

And still no voice he hears;

Toward the house he stares spellbound,

And then dissolves in tears.

 

A voice so sweet, she calls “smoko”,

Somewhere within his mind;

The vision fades, as she must go,

They’ll meet next smoko time.