Dawn Life Journey

2023 Leaving outback Broken Hill

 

We leave at dawn

a wide land before us

and behind a silver stream of memory

 

The country reveals its fragile beauty

saltbush grey under a level light

over dry gulches with history

in river names

Three Sisters Bridge

did they swim or die here or

wonder why they had come?

why too am I on this journey

in this shadow-country, god-forsaken

and the plain ending in Namatjira-painted hills

with sheep the colour of dust

 

This is not a lush country

nor generous to its invaders

but memory runs deep -

our milestones

smashed kangaroo carcasses

their bloated legs raised above

a smear of flesh and white bones,

crows rise, dark mourners in attendance

black goats note our passing

does this land know the glory of rain?

 

I dreamt of you last night

your shade lingers even here

where you never came

nor will ever come

 

The road behind me

a silver stream of memory

The Alien Immigrants

 

In their own way

almost beautiful

these ferals dancing

upon our hillside.

The yellow flowers blooming

far from home:

French Flax, Wild Mustard,

Latin names too hard

for us to learn.

Delicate, so easy

to pull out, roots and all,

they shudder under the sun.

 

We discuss methods

of eradication.

On the fertile ground

by the roadside

We have removed them

with spray and machete,

but up here among the rocks

on our wildest slopes,

they cling with hope.

No name but beauty

No Name but Beauty

 

I caught a pink snapper

in the first light

pulling from the oil-grey sea

a sliver of dawn,

salmon pink stripes

and blue dots.

eyes too large, the sun

spreading as blood.

 

Round eyes that saw

unblinking, or did not see

as I did, the last

slow waving of her

webbing on translucent fins

against the cruel air.

I did not know

there are shades between pink and pearl

iridescence, for which there are

no names but beauty.

For my brother, Mike (1945-2011)

 The Blackbird Sings

For my brother, Mike, who died in 2011

 

This evening a blackbird sings in the valley below.

I cannot fault his song

nor his determination to be heard,

so deeply sweet, yet sharp in the air.

 

Finally, it came down to this: a sterile room.

Not the place you would choose for final conversations

a slim hard bed with a view of brick walls and dirty windows

where one small green tree climbed a corner nook.

A limited view, not even clouds passing,

nor bird song, only a series

of cheery ladies with other plans for the evening.

A framed print of a fading magnolia,

or you said, was it two naked ladies?

We laughed till you told me that the wall

had turned red.

Painkillers had side effects.

 

What horrors await us?

Are there already

lurking under the skin,

or calling us down the long white corridors

to meet us shuffling round the corner

with vacant unsmiling eyes,

shapeless, shape-changing.

 

We wanted more time

to grow older, grow wiser in some way

possible, but not yet known.

 

The blackbird has learned his song

from those before.

The memory of others

and a long line of perfecting

and living, not dying

in that moment of release

into the still air beyond brick walls.

Under Mount Ranier

This woman

brave and joyful

beneath 

ancient red cedars

swims free

in the tumbling river

of late snow melt.

Strange to me, 

These songless northern forests.

Our past, from another land,

I chose to forget,

now raises its shadow

over this valley.

This is the child I bore

when still a child. 

She has found her way

through these woods,

her path not mine.

Single file I follow.

How to say 

take care, or something

like, a warning,

meaning the same?

In words carrying

sense without hurt.

Make a moment

to remember our story,

give it more

wisdom than

was truly so. Saying,

I too was there,

once.

And the river flows

through this autumn

as the moon wanes

and pale salmon gather

strength for their last swim

against the rush,

to die silent in deep pools.

Before the Rains

                             

Before the rains

red is the colour

as sunset bleeds into this land.

Tendrils of termites

embrace the trunks

as pale leaves sink

little by little into

a sift of dust.

On the paths

white bones gleam

beside footprints

of those fleeing

in circles

from the long hunger.

Anne Chappel

A dancer upon reality's mirror

My memory knows the pitfalls,

those places of pain where

the soul asks forgiveness

for its failures.

Is it better songless

to skim lightly

with the knowing that

one day, one time,

eventually,

something beyond memory,

an ancient need,

will demand more,

rising formidable and stern

to face

your wandering form

and say

Now!

It is time!

You must cross

the river stones one at a time,

turn back to look -

but those, 

there on the shore,

pale figures in the trees,

their cries are bird song.

You will wish

your touch had been

purer, like the music

that finally

reaches you

on the other side.