Myall Creek NSW
after the massacre
when we wake to truths
that make our hearts beat fast
walk the blood-red gravel track
that draws us down
to write the story on our heart
needled on our skin
to pin our bones into its frame
and stand
with Milton's fear
for blindness and denial
then grope and touch
the blood-stained earth
with spines of ironbark
and smell the stench of burnt flesh
where only eucalypts should waft
we weep
then truth that quickens
our nation's gut
stirs the country's womb unbirthed
in all its wrench of birthing pangs
rips and tears at every sinew
all we know
there is no going back
in search of history
'did we not know their blood channeled our rivers' — Judith Wright
how do you remember
a day that history clouded
smothered in bleached blankets
and bundled into recesses
dark alcove corners of our nation's history
and dared anyone to lurk there?
know trojan horses
stand all over our country
with their story inside
that bursts to be told
side by side
with every town's war memorial
we go in search of one of those stories
you don't find this place by accident
it's a journey from the coast
drive inland, west as we say
step off your veranda
away from safety and comfort of home.
Myall Creek Reserve
a picnic area to enjoy lunch
and cuppa from our new thermos
no corner shop for many a mile.
the occupants here are stringy barks
eucalypts and grass trees
magpies sing nearby
waiting for our leftovers
and above a solitary blue King-fisher
in the tenement of a large ironbark
a peacefulness halos us
in the distance sheep graze
in a patch of irrigated green
cattle munch
the blood-red gravel path walks us
the Myall Creek Memorial Way
as pilgrims we read each plaque
bow our heads remember
through tears I notice mica glint
from the stunning granite stones
that hold the stations of the story
here is the place of a massacre
finally acknowledged named dated
clutched out of the recesses of memory
and into history
tiny wrens flicker the scrub like sparks of sapphire
ants are at a frenzy
moving thousands of tiny rounded pebbles
the smell of gun powder,
screams of mothers and children
amidst the stringy barks and brown grasslands
above the flowing creek
has stilled
smell of burning flesh is hard to forget
yet when history bursts forth
the birthing pangs sated
trojan horses whimper and collapse
shared history
'History despite its wrenching pain
cannot be unlived,
but if faced with courage,
need not be lived again' — Maya Angelo
there's something in the shining light
that lends itself to thoughts of hope
perhaps it is a brashness — the way it glows
so cheerfully in this cloudless winter time
perhaps the way it dresses up the land
catches blue kingfishers on their wing
festoons the leaves the rocks the trees
today it