New South Wales

After Gurrumul

The sunset is a grief for us,

a crying without release.  We watch

the goldengrey cool waves roll

and see in them those others who’ve been

here with us.

Oh, my father!  What a longing

is at the fishing rock where we

scattered your ashes once.  Quiet, though,

your mother’s old kitchen.  These cliffs have seen

so many tides come and go.

Oh, grandfather!  This ocean

will sing your name when people

have long since ceased to fear

your furrowed brow, your flashing pride,

your knowledge of their past.

The paths that link our houses

tell of histories without number.

Each corner, each tree, each anthill is

what we’ve learned at her knee,

the saltwind teacher.

My lineage holds me close here:

can you feel it?  It brings me

a wealth of tears each time I catch

the late sun glistening on that

restless old sea.