ECHOES

 ECHOES.. Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBark Poet

 

 

 

Silvery spinifex shake and shiver startled by the winds soft sigh.

The night is hushed and quiet, a big mob of roos pass by,

when faintly like a memory of a lonely Spirit Being

comes the sound of warragals * calling, calling, calling.  Echoing.

 

The desert nights are cold and dark, wind whispers through the dunes.

A million stars, bright sycophants, are clustered round the moon.

Has it been stained by desert sands?  For it glows orange red.

Or does its colour represent some long-ago bloodshed?

 

Red coals glow in the campfire, casting shadows black and deep

where a woman rocks a coolamon in which her baby sleeps.

She sings an ancient lullaby, like her Mother used to do.

Two dogs, with ears cocked, listen, as they gnaw carcass of roo.

 

From the darkness comes a moaning, an eerie wailing sound

rising in the night-time's stillness, it echoes all around.

It's the sound of didges droning as they play the ancient songs

and the clap sticks beat the rhythm, as they will the whole night long.

 

The Voice of God* is calling the Spirits of the Ancient Ones

 who also walked these desert sands beneath the blazing sun.

As its swung its song it sings, it calls the Gods to bring the rain

to fill the waterholes and creeks and replenish arid plains.

 

The night sky lightens, dawn is near, the storm bird sings his song.

Tall, shadowed shapes return to camp, a silent stealthy throng.

Just the sibilant shoosh of sand disturbed by broad unfettered feet

is heard as warriors return, to drink and rest and eat.

 

Soon they'll leave to hunt Perente* in the dark red desert sands

whilst still cool enough to walk on. Each man carries in his hands

his boomerang and hunting tools of woomera and spear

 the same as their forefathers did, as has been done for years.

 

They are hunters quite imposing.  Just a hair string belt in place.

White shells woven in their hair, ochre paint still on each face

 and body.  The ritual symbols of the totems for their clan.

They are hunters, they are warriors.  Each an initiated man.

 

Silvery spinifex shake and shiver startled by the winds soft sigh.

Early dawn is hushed and quiet, there are wispy clouds up high.

Then faintly like a memory of a lonely Spirit Being

comes the sound of warragals calling, calling, calling.  Echoing.

 

 

*  Bullroarers were often referred to as The Voice of God

·         Perente – Goanna/Lizard

                                                

warragals – Dingo/Australian native dog