I AM THE LAND - THE LAND IS ME

 

I AM THE LAND - THE LAND IS ME

Maureen Clifford ©  The #ScribblyBarkPoet

https://soundcloud.com/maureen-clifford-scribblybark-poetry/iam-theland 

 

He stands.  So dark and brooding, tall and strong as Ironbark tree.  

Relaxed, he rests one broad foot up against his other knee.  

      He waits, a silhouette against a pewter-coloured sky.                 

As slowly the moon rises, and he hears a Mirri* cry                        

His spearhead 's made of flint he's knapped and fastened to a haft. 

Xanthorrhoea spike fire hardened to a straight and sturdy shaft.        

He watches quiet and silent, standing 'neath the ghostly glow.        

Sees the shine of moon on water in creek beds far below,                

where biguun* drink. Suckers and Sows, black Boars with ivory tusk.                   

A Proud Owls' victim screeches as it's dispatched in the dusk.                                

He feels the barest breeze brush by as bats hunt on the wing.                                  

Senses a snake in scrub nearby.  Sinuous.  Slithering.                                              

 

Drifting across the moon, light clouds cause dark shadows to fall                           

cross plains and wooded hillsides, creeping down steep rocky walls.                      

Lantana tangled gullies all descending to the creek                                      

      where gidjirrigaa* seek water, and Pobblebonk gindjurra* speak.                                 

Here where it's sheltered, tall Pandanus grow with water lilies.                                

The creek is full of yabbies and rich with yellow bellies.                                         

Lone silent watcher of this land, maybe he's perceiving,                                          

 that old ones to watched from this place, long before the Dreaming.                      

Nowhere are campfires flickering, there’s just starlight up above.               

Small fireflies hover...twinkling...in their light dance of love.                                  

      His memories nostalgic fuse with night noises nocturnal.                                              

      His land now softly slumbers...guarding her secrets eternal.                                          

 

He feels the music in his soul, songs of this ancient land.                            

No orchestra to play along - .no pipe or marching band.                                          

Percussion brilliantly enhanced and lightened by the breeze                        

tapping ‘gainst old Pandanus trunks with long and stringy leaves.               

The wind section is joining now, softly, sweetly invoked                                        

by breezes gentle fingers soft, caressing the She Oaks.                                            

For drums - hush now.  Hear pounding?  A mob of roos on the move.                    

Creek waters trickle softly, like a harps sweet interlude.                                          

For resonance of Cello hear the water tumbling down.                                            

Gurgling over rocks in a cacophony of sound.........                                      

 The sob and sigh of violins, always such sad refrain,                                              

 is courtesy of Nature and the hiss of monsoon rain.                                     

 

Chorus and verse, Mirri* rehearse their eerie sad singing.                            

Silent hunters of the night their songs echoes are ringing.                            

The song of the gindjurra* drifts up from near the creek,                             

joins in with mellow tenor notes and baritone so deep.                                            

Nature again plays ancient songs; he hears them as he stands.                                 

He is the keeper of the stones and of these precious lands...                         

He stands alone surveying all the country that he sees.                                             

Relaxed.  He rests one broad foot up against his other knee.                        

He waits.  A silhouette against a pewter-coloured sky                                              

as moon moves to its apex.  Mother Earth will hear his cry.                        

I am the land; the land is me.  Each rock, each creek, each tree.                              

I am the guardian of this land ...but this land,  she owns me.                        

 

 

Kamilaroi Language 

*  biguun .. pig : 

gidgerrigaa ... budgerigar:  

gindjurra .. frog: 

 mirri .. wild dog/dingo