Part I 
This country breathes secrets

restless wind roaming,

biting at your neck,

knotting your hair. 
Trees of old bleed

              stories in ochre sap

elegies

              for things forgotten.

The dusted shedding of the paperbark;

a raw reminder

              of the land’s crude underbelly

                            its knotted centre.
Sun curdling

the earth at your feet –

Don’t try to deceive. 
You’ve already whispered

              your sins into the ear of the land,

carved your scars into its belly. 
This wind

              a nomad,

recognises the curve of your skin

dirt knows where to hide –

              in the creases of your eyes,

              under the ledge of your chin 
This country knows you better than yourself.
You are only

one of many.
              Country never forgets.




When the riverbed cracks

under the sun’s hot glare,

when life must battle

                            for existence, 
the past mounts 
rising with the sinking water

settling in the mud

scalding to the eye, waiting to burn the feet of all

              kindling old senses

                            stirring old sins

no-one can escape it

The past runs through this country

              can’t be buried

              can’t be thrown out. 


Part II
Tommy knows this place;

can count the times he’s been away from it

on one hand.
Tommy knows the best places to get a feed –

around the bend of an old trunk,

where the roos lead you
Follow them and you won’t be left empty handed.

No,

              this country has much to share with you. 
If you ask he’ll tell you

where the biggest secrets

              lie in folds

where the bush is

                            thickest

and

              the best climbing places to view all up this country. 
Tommy breathes in stories of this land

              family stories

feels them buzzing about him

written in the mud slapped against the river’s walls

              they drop into the air as the muck dries 
He’s walked this path all his life,

              pausing

where the ground drops

and the two chasms clash together,

where the crags shiver in dusklight,

	where the willows weep more loudly 
But Tommy doesn’t swim this river,

              won’t test these waters,

doesn’t climb that mountain line

the great heights towering,

looming blackness where a generation

              was pushed

to the nightdark waters deep below
silver moony reflections swimming for years to come. 
Tom has seen the dirty swirls,

felt the shingle underfoot at crossings

              watched for carp clap and water slap 
But Tommy doesn’t touch this river.

Out West he’ll swim in old Surry River
              but not this one here.