We lived and farmed, my convict father and I, on the last

clear patch by the Cudgegong River, our hut right beneath

the enveloping hills. On each flat-top there crouched a beast
of stone, these animals glared like sphinxes through a wreath

of trees, guards for the far, black mountains, set to keep

us from their gates. And this land of the valley had a breath:
the tribe. They swam through the bush as an eel in the green deep

of the river, weaving through the dimness. Two peoples, one place

with water, and where the land was fat for game or sheep.
More settlers arrived, and after drink men threatened to chase

that mob of blacks away. From his old scars, so aware

was dad of persecution, behind whatever face,
that he warned me away from the boy. We'd met by the river last year

on the hunt for one quarry, and had fallen in together.

To see me, he'd lean on our gum out the back, standing there
till I'd slip away from my jobs, then we'd go fishing or slither

through the reeds to hunt. I even learnt a few words of their talk,

though never thought to teach him ours, and ignored my father,
happy to see the boy beneath our tree, and walk

after him through the bush. When agate faced, with no laugh

or sign as usual, he grabbed my wrists, then turned to stalk
between the wattles. One heart beat's halt and I headed off

to follow, sticking close behind, though he took a track

far from the valley, among steep hills where the going was tough.
My doubts were surrendered to his sure stride and his lack

of hesitation among the sandstone walls, till I

was lost beyond my own returning, no going back
before the dusk.  The last of twilight had left the sky

when we stopped by a creek, merely a skim of water on sand,

here the boy mixed ochre, red and white, to apply
in streaks on our chests, and on our cheeks with prints of his hand.

We'd come to a secret place, a ground for ceremony:

one tree, and in a ring, thousands of prints in the sand
treading, re-treading round the white trunk like the many

long years spun on this axis. All ages seemed to twine

together, so that turning about and about in the honey
of thickened history, could concentrate, in this time,

some thing of the past to be touched. Ritual performed we sealed

the tree with our palms in blood-red ochre as a sign,
ending our dive through ages, and slept till dawn revealed,

among gullies scraped out by claws of darkness, our track

to home. Where at midday we washed and I hid behind a shield
of wattles to watch my father. He was sitting, his back

to the door, when I'd stepped out and said, trying to be bold,

‘I got bushed the other side of the river.' ‘Not with that black,'
he retorted. ‘No, alone' I said. ‘That's what I told

the neighbours, that you were missing, taken away by him.'

I was led inside to eat. My old man didn't scold
or ask another question, but stared over the rim

of his cup at me as I worried the cold meat and damper.

That's when the shooting started, bangs that by the whim
of the wind echoed round the hut. A party of campers

perhaps, but the sound had built and built. I'd tried to shut

tight my ears to the rolling climax and, like a dog, scampered
by instinct to the door. My father held it closed, ‘stay put!'

was all he said. I curled on the mattress, each shot a pound

in the guts, though I'd no grip on the happenings a mile from the hut.
But I'd seen hunts: when startled by dogs a grey would bound

big-eyed through the trees, and then the shot and then the ‘roo

would collapse in a rolling tumble, to kick and thrash on the ground.
Then the dogs would pile in. If you wanted to keep the meat, they'd shoo

them away, but if it was near the end of the hunt, with enough

in the bag, to keep them keen, the pack would be let go.
And the men would stand and watch. There was firing on and off

into the night and later, with father asleep, I stared

at the moonlight splayed, shot on the dirt floor, silver and soft.
Of course some got away, to the pathless country, and speared

a sheep when they could. I was part of that people, by rite

and by guilt, and when in town with those men I never dared
to look up, knowing I was an excuse for that night,

and I chucked my guts when I saw blood on our gum at first light