Sunday, 18 August 2019


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 –
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.

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