Wednesday, 4 November 2009



Simmering sun, dipping down out of view,
Allowing the winter moon to debut.
Twelve travellers, each perched on a rain-sodden pew,
Some old and some young, a right motley crew.

Twelve succulent steaks of Kangaroo,
Sputter and sizzle on a barbecue.
A cold beer, ahhhhh!, that’s long overdue,
The haunting call of a didgeridoo.

Waves gentle and glimmering, seducing the sand,
The crisp winter breeze, boats bobbing unmanned.
A barefooted stranger, surveying the land,
Aboriginal art etched onto his hand.

Through silver smoke he enters without hesitation,
The travellers fall silent, not one exhalation.
Eyes out on their stalks, in awed fascination,
Hairs standing on end with tense expectation.

He chants in native tongue, for nature uprooted,
Longing for the past, the lands unpolluted.
Flowers in bloom, waters undiluted.
Weeps for his country, his people persecuted.

By Amy Wilson, DMU

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