History is coiled in my cells

from this land, land beyond sea

black loch, coarse heather, farmed croft, a wooden boat.

German burial of an Australian airman

jack boots and red segments of flag

emptiness absorbs Bealiba station.

In my blood, claimed land stolen by an imperial greed

a shredded testament

dust of the First People, rocks and sheep

fleece of prosperity, wild river, dwindling bush.

Coastal salt spray of Port Melbourne

oily rainbows, red bricks, sheet metal, passing ships.

Tradesman, minister, the glitter

of sapphire, diamond and gold rings.

New Hebrides mid-wife, missionary.

Seymour, droplets of the Goulbourn River.

I am the dead, the dying.
Gippsland, Moe, a village in France

sawn wood, hammer, handmade squares and plane

living in a tent, generations before I was born

the fire that razed their house, plentiful bush.

Great grandfather walking into the dam

his damage flowing from grandmother to mother to me.

Running creek past the dairy, her cows

and paddocks, orchids picked, passing train

memories my mother no longer can retrieve.

My history jagged fragments.

I am the living, from the silence I speak.