The Sun Is Calling Menzies

The golden rays spread across the burnt-orange earth,
where rocks now splintered are pebbles dispersed.
The aeons have passed where once there was lush grass,
now there is the blood-red dirt.

And the Sunlight of Gold says goodnight to Menzies once bold,
now worn and left in the cold.
As evening arrives with a chill to its breath,
in the still of the dusk,
you may hear the dead of the mines whisper,
We tried, and the day birds squawk as they swiftly fly by.

And down by the creek, on the edge of the town,
the peppercorn trees creak and rustle near beds now dry.
And the blak-fellas speak in whispers it seems,
as their night fires now crackle with warmth.

And the Sunlight of Gold knows their stories of old,
while the gold of the soul is now stolen all gone;
and the Earth weeps to its children in vain,
from its open wounds and deep holes from miner’s pain.

Yes the night does come again,
in the wake of the setting Sun.
And the listless town-folk saunter along
the dusty main road, as the Sun’s last glow
says goodbye to fellow travellers.

And as I stand out on the flat,
just beyond the blak-fellas shacks,
I hear a humming from days gone by,
a bull-roarer being twirled in the sky.
Then I listen to the spaces between the squawking,
talking birds. Ah, the land she is calling,
and my Tjamu he is singing,
and the sound of water gushing forth
from summer night storms come rushing;
and the trees and reeds and rushes,
by the sandy creek bed that looked dead,
drink deeply of this nectar from the Dreamtime Song Protector.

And the Sun dips its lights, winks and says goodnight,
and Menzies sleeps on desert site.
The Dreamtime beings of the night,
sing by campfires warm and strong,
by dusty, sandy creek beds,
under star-light where no walls block
the Song from desert hold, then sleep on earth-bound beds.

And all this is going on
while others of new ways close their doors,
in solitude they stay.

I wander in the night,
in chilled air with goose bumps,
my skin electric and alive,
as the moon lights up my path,
and the creatures of the dark forage
and watch after my passing by,
as my Tjamu watches closely,
while I feel my way through country
that is my peoples land no more.

Then in the dawn-light rising,
the golden rays drift across the threshold
of the red-earth’s door,
and the cycle does begin again,
as I’m called back from my Dreaming.

Then I wait and watch in solemn silence —
wait for the night to call,
so we can again go walking upon
the earth-bound plane once more.

Before I sleep I see my Tjamu standing
on a rocky out-crop landing,
one leg propped upon the other,
figure four with knee cap pointing,
as he ensures the Sun is calling Menzies awake
again at four.

© DjA “Crowmanic” (1997)

NOTE: Menzies is a very small mostly-deserted town some 80 miles or so north of Kalgoorlie, WA
Tjamu means grand-father, great-uncle. (A title of respect towards ones significant male elder)

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Tags:

aboriginal, aborigine, australia, dream, dreaming, dreamtime, indigenous, poem and poetry