Country

1 May 2018

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.

This entry was posted in 86: NO THEME VII and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Related Posts:

  • No Related Posts Found

Comments are closed.

Please read Cordite's comments policy before joining the discussion.