I feel it there,
heavy,
on my head,
across my shoulders,
in my heart.
Where to now?
Oct 17, 2023
Oct 17, 2023 at 8:40 PM UTC
He was aged about half way
between my parents and myself
and, as a child, I always called him
“Uncle Max”
and took great pleasure
in visiting him
and “Auntie Margaret”.
He had served in the air-force
during the Second World War,
only to return home
to a community petition
to have him removed
from the “war service home”
that he and Auntie Margaret
had been allocated.
They had grown up
in mission children’s homes
and knew very little
of their indigenous language,
so, in later life,
when meeting,
we always used
what little "language"we shared
before reverting to English.
“Wai tjilpi. Nyuntu palya?”
“Uwa. Palya”
“G’day old man. Are you well?”
“Yes. I’m well.”
Sep 28, 2023
Sep 28, 2023 at 10:10 PM UTC
She lived
in a small hut,
over the hill,
by the creek,
in the little mission settlement
where my parents worked -
Rebecca Forbes.
She’d come from England
as a young woman,
working first in Sydney
then out “Back O’ Bourke”
where she met and married
Jack Forbes,
a horse-breaker.
They continued to work
on isolated stations
until age and family
favored settling down
in a small
indigenous community
that later became a mission.
Jack died in mid-life,
but Rebecca lived on,
into her eighties,
a valued and respected
member of the community,
never losing
her strong Cockney accent.
She is buried there now
in a little cemetery
on a rocky hill
overlooking the settlement
and the surrounding range –
a place of stark,
arid beauty.
I have a photograph
of myself and my sister,
visiting her,
a little old woman,
sitting outside her hut,
nursing her cat –
Rebecca.
Aug 10, 2023
Aug 10, 2023 at 12:48 AM UTC
Dawn light
dapples the frosty ground,
each patch of warmth
a promise of spring.
each icy hollow
a reminder of winter.
Aug 8, 2023
Aug 8, 2023 at 10:17 PM UTC
A pair of parrots visited our house this morning;
sat and chatted a while,
in the tree just outside our bedroom window,
their colours enhanced by the rising sun,
then flew off to join their flock.
I lay in bed
and watched a while,
before rising to meet the day,
grateful for their visit.
May 27, 2023
May 27, 2023 at 10:13 PM UTC
We woke
while the night
was still dark,
committed to climb
“Wadna Yalda”
in time
to watch dawn
over the salt-lake
“Munda”.
With torches
and headlights
we started –
first scrub,
then scree,
then rock
and, finally,
a leap
over the narrow
but deep chasm,
cut into the mountain
by a boomerang
of the dream-time
“Blue Wren Man”,
and on to the summit.
As dawn brightened
we could sense
the glowing white
of “Munda”,
then the brightness
of the sun itself
gleaming
off the salt.
Exhilarated,
we returned to camp
for breakfast
of billy tea
and damper.
Oct 11, 2022
Oct 11, 2022 at 10:15 PM UTC
Robbie was a handy-man by trade – a sleazebag by reputation.
No sooner had widowhood been acknowledged,
than Robbie would be there,
offering support with his voice,
and enticement with his handshake
by a well-known caressing of the palm.
All the widows knew it and were wary.
He attended the rural chapel
of the immersion baptism kind -
regularly sang there in the choir.
The chapel was so tiny,
choir and baptistry were cramped
with a narrow aisle between
baptistry and walls.
The choir had sung its anthem, a simple gospel song,
and commenced returning to the pews
when Robbie missed his footing
and overbalanced with a splash.
After chaos and rescue,
church continued to its close
to the lap – lap – lapping of the plunge.
But next day the news spread quickly
and a great guffaw arose
that encompassed the community with mirth.
To most of those who knew him
it seemed obvious of course,
Robbie needed more than “born again”
but “baptized again” as well.
Oct 3, 2022
Oct 3, 2022 at 4:32 AM UTC
We drive past it often,
just a patch of scrub
by the roadside,
in a plain of open farmland,
reaching to the horizon,
but it has a story.
One Sunday afternoon,
in the early days of our settlement,
Robert and Louisa Fry
went driving in their gig
but never returned home.
Louisa was murdered by Robert
that afternoon,
followed by Robert’s suicide
some months later.
Louisa’s remains were found,
badly decomposed,
and buried on site
without a headstone;
Robert’s nearby
and buried in a local cemetery.
Superstition, respect
and convenience
have kept the clump
over subsequent generations,
a landmark and a point of reference
by the side of the road –
a feature passed by many
but known by few -
“Fry’s Clump”.
Aug 25, 2022
Aug 25, 2022 at 2:13 AM UTC
It faces south,
the little port,
onto the great
Southern Ocean;
nothing but
surging sea
until the ice
of Antarctica.
Inside a breakwater
there is calm
for a few fishing boats,
resting, idle just now,
unaware of former times
when the little port was busy
shipping grain and wool
to the world beyond.
But now it is quiet,
off-season –
a few tourists,
intrepid to the winter storms
raging in from the west,
relishing the change
from their lives
elsewhere.
Jun 9, 2022
Jun 9, 2022 at 1:59 AM UTC
A narrow track
leaves the main road
and winds back
over the range
skirting steep falls
to the valley below.
It ends by ruins
of the old mine –
a boiler house
and chimney,
a gated adit
and main shaft,
some open cut workings
and other buildings,
all in local stone.
It was never a great mine;
about ten years of production,
a century and a half ago,
then a couple of short revivals
over following years –
but copper,
so basic to industry
in a growing colony.
Now it is quiet,
no sound of human activity,
a gentle breeze along the range,
an occasional bird call
but, by a cottage ruin,
a patch of small red poppies,
planted by someone long forgotten,
memories of a garden.
May 25, 2022
May 25, 2022 at 12:16 AM UTC