Didgeridoos like alp horns,
Kaleidoscopes of mystical sounds,
While they gather around a fire,
Learning that their throats
Are spirited, and their hands
Are full of corns. In this outback, the choice
Is getting high on pituri and cheap alcohol,
The type that is distilled, in a Queen’s land.
How the kangaroos came before
Us, and learned how to
Jump and kick, while protecting
We harness the fire in us,
like the fire of the land. We look at dusty roads,
winding like slithering venomous snakes,
that evolved to be a menace, while we look
At sunlight reflected from the topmost sheen,
While we drive past dead kangaroo carcasses,
Caught ambling or jaywalking.
While dingos howl, we prowl
Our seismic fingers, like a potter
high on caffeine. We spring on our
Back, our matildas, and walk along the chosen path.
How we are charged by two kinds of spirits;
Ethanol and the rainbow serpent,
Like the white man has his God and red wine.
We are no one’s graces, No one’s charity project,
No man’s welfare cause.
How we forget that our women, wade into
billabongs, to bear inside their wombs,
Little Bindis, tiny butterflies,
That suckled the nectar rich breasts,
Of Banksias, that leap out of mother earth,
Remembering the stolen generations,
forced into ways, a white man lives.
How one word “Sorry”, reiterated,
That one act of salvation,
is perhaps an apology too late, and too few.
How we saw through the thinly-veiled white man,
Sandpapering his profound guilt;
200 long years of Mea culpa.