(for Wayne ‘Legs’ Webster)

Sitting in the Swan Hill town hall
I felt your presence
an opening door.
My spirit leapt to yours.
You felt it too.
We had huge smiles.

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In the pub
I noticed your legs
but most of all I noticed
the soft laughter in your skin
awash with tears.

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Standing by the fire
near where her ancestors had been buried
you pushed me forward
I drew in the smoke-
a gift.
The river rushed by.

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Driving the long road
to Bendigo
with a silent woman.
You called.
We didn’t need words.

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Curled in my bed.
Neither of us knowing why
as we held each other
a certain refuge circled the room.

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That was many nights ago – months – years.
And in this in-between we continue to touch
wounds of history
countries stolen
the contradictions of who we are.

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A little boy walks the street with his mother.
A white farmer approaches
holds bones of their ancestors
asks what to do.
A little boy promises his people: I will find out, I will find out.
And you did.
And you do.

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A bird landed on your shoulder
whilst you were fencing.
All day
it did not leave.

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Together we learn the medicine of listening10
the weight of hearing11
the joys of learning
another one’s ways.

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You are exhausted.
I put you to bed.
Big breaths into your lungs
and your voice:
I feel so safe here, so safe here.
I hold you precious against my skin.

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Our is not a fairy tale.
There are unshared intimacies
differences misread
tears shed
amongst attempts to understand.

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You visit me in hospital daily.
My case worker wants a meeting with family.
It is you who attends.

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You take me to Terrick Terrick
Your country
to the rock where we can see for miles
Your country
where tiny indentations hold water
Your country
where you build a fire
Your country
where we are cleansed
Your country
where the smoke sent out
bathes you in the beautiful light
of your country.