and the healing wounds of a Country under the weather
Chains and bladders and healing wounds of a country under the weather. This poem was written by me during the many ebbs and flows of the Lachlan River. This was a dry spell around 2009 that prompted me to write this way
The trees were chained to near extinction
.
The natives were chained to near submission
on the mission
on the river
life giver
.
The chain of ponds were unchained
.
Draining the ponding that was bonding the river health
and the natives hydraulic wealth. All removed by stealth
.
He was under the weather
.
One could knock him over with a feather
.
His spirit was broken. A token of a man
He sucked on the bladder. The death adder bladder
.
It was the demons breast at best. His life was heading west
.
Him, product of wounded country under the weather
.
Will the winds of change lance the festering wound
that is a blight today tomorrow and tonight?
The wound
Heel! we said to the terriers of terra nullas
.
Like a mungrel pup we shot those that played up
.
Took the children away in trains to train them
to see if we could control, mould them to our image
Heel. We said as we razed the bush.
Raised the flag of victory over a people who knew that no land is won or lost by war
.
The invaders feet have tangled in nets there and his blood is thinned by fears. ( judith wright)
Judy Wright you were right when you said ” no land is won or lost by wars. The invader feet will
tangle in nets there. And their blood be thinned by fears”
.
Plight comes with shooting and uprooting natives.
Blight casts over uprooters now falling under appalling pollution
.
Internal sores unknown cause
.
Polluted bores. saltier than the Asores. Where’s the solution
.
Straight shooters might say enoughs enough
.
But they live in fear of stepping up a gear
.
The status quo is hard to throw.
Step out of line and ” down ya go”
.
Well my back is arched
.
Arched as a tom cat confronting wild dogs.
My claws are sharp and ready to rip into the authorities by way of the poetic word.
Scratching them indelibly into the annals of time.
Their backstabbing, baseless and tasteless against the onslaught
.
You know the bush is parched. There are no sounds in the night, not a frog or a cricket or a
mopoke.
The summer heat and the bare ground, parched.
Take a stand.
Take A stand of trees and get them off their knees.
Start at the road strips.
Move the fences out into fallow
.
Metres at a time
.
The remnants will self propagate, regenerate.
A virtual fence is all that is needed.
The task is an ask,
a bitter pill,
a bit up hill.
We have to take the challenge and cure the ill.
The ill wind.
It will rescind,
the thread that binds,
the Cyprus pines
,
the stable minds
.
The ill wind defines,
the line in the sand
and the sand will expand out of hand,
the land unmanned. Deserted deserted.
The sun bakes the naked banks on the far canal
farken al farken al .
when will we learn
make a u turn
regenerate instead of decimate mate.
Weeping willows, weep no more.
Wind swept waters,
waders wander wonder,
what a coot
no water rat under willow root
barren banks eroded exposed.corroded.
Managing minds imposing fines
.
Menacing wands weaving black magic with glyphosate mate
cumbunji kaboom
.
No more do they deliver the filter for water as they orta.
No more are they haven for waterfowl
,
hunting area for the night owl
.
Bovine bellows fill the night noises
.
Cavorting and crunching they destroy the cumbunji .
Gee,m, your giving the natural state a use by date mate.
Shut the gate mate as you leave for the city.
Your self imposed 21st century penitentiary
Pity you couldn’t love the land like the ancient clan did.
Instead you sold her for a gready quid
.
Don’t deny it, yes you did.
From Eddie to anyone who wants to trade denial for truth telling.
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