Displacement

He stands, right hand holds the shaft

of a spear – solid as a tree rooted in dirt –

left foot

communes with his right knee, he

stares out across unfolded years,

searches for the home

lost beneath the brutal feet of sheep and cows.

She sits beside the meandering river

her feet – weathered by sand and sun –

cleansed,

mind full of white-water churnings, she

stares deep into the days

before she was removed,

brought to this station of cattle and blowflies.

They once came and parted like the waves,

stood silent – eyes shining, opals of the land –

or sang together;

before strangers came, they

shared food and painted sacred sites,

strangers changed everything

with disease and lies.

Now the young

begin to gather – celebrate in smoke and paint –

find their memories,

their wisdom unearthed by feet thumping land, they

fight the tyranny of histories

written on the bones

of their displaced ancestors.

A white man dreaming while sitting on his front porch:

 

Rivers snake across the ground

as sun catches the water, scales reflect,

sear the eye; behind the closed lids

footprints of luminous red sand,

above the curved tin roof, hidden by day

stars the same and different, known figures

turned upside down, scrutinize.

From the branded and beloved familiar,

plants transplanted into mulched soil,

blue cottage flowers sway, fruit trees, fruit flies,

bruised, fallen rose petals, the quiet suckle of aphid –  

loaded shotgun demands attention, hungry

for twitch of rabbit and fox – if you have to kill

better it’s the carcass of an animal you comprehend.

The stone people:

This land is made of stones,

stones along its shores

washed by the ocean, stones

that listen to the waves,

that cry with the gulls

and understand the journey of sand.

Stones guarding the mountains,

stones playing in the fields,

large stones with white swirls,

small grey stones;

even the heart of the Land is a stone,

the greatest stone of all, it pulses

from sunrise to sunset,

a red stone that shares the land with all.

The stones of this land are alive,

Understand the serpent

that is river winding beside them,

stretch with the tree and grass,

run with roo and emu;

this Land’s stones breath and feel.

This land is so old the stones

have learnt to be, formed a lasting friendship

with the people of the land,

with the animals also.

The stones of this land have heard the songs

and learnt to sing,

a deep beautiful stone voice

that weaves peace into everything.

The people who came to this land

in wooden ships

and canvas sails,

who came with cotton and wool,

with steel and wheat,

did not pause to listen to the stones.

The new people who came across the sea,

proud in their accomplishments

ignored even the greatest stone of all,

treated it as a sideshow.

The people who came

could not hear

for in their chests they carried

their own small stones.

Those stones,

so recently arrived,

had not yet learned to hear

and were unable to feel.

The stones of this Land

sing still,

hope with the Land

that the people with stones in their chests

will one day hear

and learn to understand.

crazy white fella

Time…
Time was
Time changed

A slow drift of embers
Changed into a yellow ant fire –
Repeated scurry
Crazy hunger to locate
The next source of dinner

Time…
Time was
Time to return

Loop back – a river’s meander
To send the ants back to their homeland,
Leave this land free
Of their greed and hunger.

Time…
Time was
Time is

Never to return,
The meandering river hoops too far
Turns into the billabong;
A circle that does not flow.
A slow decay.

Time…
Sixty-five thousand years of time
Two hundred and thirty-one years of time

Crazy white fella time,
The rush towards
Never the pause to look around;
A clutch
Never to unfold.