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.