headstones bend in coastal breeze.
All afternoon we drive, but headstones
give no shadow. We wind up our windows,
clouds retreat, we pretend that the day is blue.
We drive past paddocks, scar trees hold
orders of service. We drive past towns
full of cemeteries, headstones on pub verandas.
We drive past cemeteries: wheat crops, wind farms,
the unused olive branches. We drive past
pools and lakes, pretend again the day is blue.
Headstones rise all round us, we see them
walk to courts of law. We drive and drive
and drive, in search of an open grave.
*The site, in the Victorian town of Portland, of the first recorded massacre of Aborigines by white Australians.
** First published National Indigenous Times, 2006
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