‘that one’
the child stands at the door
the kitchen is warm
smells of fresh milk and tea
mother grandmother aunt
talk mention
‘the small dark woman’-
notice the child listening
looks of fear and knowing exchange
grandmother scolds
says: ‘you better watch
that one’.
that one
lies on the earth
under the hills hoist
listening and feeling
the cool damp softly humming
earth. From time to time
she opens her eyes.
White clouds mist the blue.
She rises knowing
that to bring back the dead
is a slow and gentle thing.
A shared knowing
I called my mother.
‘How are you?’
‘urr…o kay’. My mother’s tiny voice.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing’s happened…
I’ve been cleaning at Auntie Jessie’s
I just feel … urrr …’.
My mother’s fading voice.
Silence – a shared knowing.
‘I rang to read you something…
do you feel okay to listen?’
‘Yes. Yes …
If you feel okay to read’.
She turns off the telly.
Sits.
I read.
She listens.
I want to show her some sun.
‘Mum can you do something nice for yourself today?’
‘I’ll take your father’s car to Albury… he’s booked it in.’
‘Mum can you do something nice for yourself today?’
‘I’ll sit in the sun and read a book while they’re working…’
‘Mum, for you, what can you do for you today?’
‘I found some coffee I like – it’s organic, Fairtrade.
I’ll have a cup of coffee and a date…
I’ll knit’.
Your country
(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.
+++
In the pub
I noticed your legs
but most of all I noticed
the soft laughter in your skin
awash with tears.
+++
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.
+++
Driving the long road
to Bendigo
with a silent woman.
You called.
We didn’t need words.
+++
Curled in my bed.
Neither of us knowing why
as we held each other
a certain refuge circled the room.
+++
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.
+++
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.
+++
A bird landed on your shoulder
whilst you were fencing.
All day
it did not leave.
+++
Together we learn the medicine of listening10
the weight of hearing11
the joys of learning
another one’s ways.
+++
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.
+++
Our is not a fairy tale.
There are unshared intimacies
differences misread
tears shed
amongst attempts to understand.
+++
You visit me in hospital daily.
My case worker wants a meeting with family.
It is you who attends.
+++
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.
