Under a stretched
sky of periwinkle flame,
Rolling hills of
pastel green pastures and paspalum,
Studded with
stands of ironbark.
The biggest
branches towered,
Tipped with
crimson blossoms,
Tangs of eucalyptus
in the clear air.
Knee-length
grass
Swathed the
gentle slopes,
Slender stems
swayed
Like waves at
sea
In the tender
breeze.
Distant stunted
mountains,
Faded into soft misty blues
Around cliff
faces creamed
With scraggy
sandstone bluffs.
Houses
uninhabited and derelict.
Timber panels scarred
by fire.
Shattered glass
panes
Between stained
window frames -
Ugly shards deterring
visitors.
One child at a table –
A blonde waif
licking a spoon,
And seated on a
high chair.
Next, a
disheveled work site,
Like an old
factory,
Or a set of
storerooms.
Sheets of
corrugated iron
Nailed niggardly
together,
Metal rivets rusting,
Unfastened
flaps
Creaking back
and forth in the wind.
Workers idle,
Dressed in tartan
flannelette shirts.
Beyond the
ruins
Lazed an open cut mine -
A shallow quarry
–
With no
remnants of wealth.
In the midst of
this pit of murky rubble,
Buried
up to his neck,
A black man strained
and twisted
So his
bloodshot eyes could focus on me.
Beside
the diggings,
Tracks went up
A trivial verdant
hill;
And a dreamtime
voice
Called from the
top of the rise:
‘Here are the
dead. This is the home of the dead.’
The words
floated on the air
Like far-flung flower
petals
Roused by an
easy zephyr.
But at the
summit
There were no
marked graves.
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