Blood Stained Hills (present tense)
And we forage here on these blood stained hills
Hills that roll smooth and treeless with truth
As a warmth arrives on the Ancestral wind
Mouthing memories of their blood and mine
I carry the prized digging stick of my grandmother
Her handprint and my handprint combined
A promise of happiness I followed her here
Incarnate by history and this new child inside
And we forage here on these blood stained hills
Searching for the bird sounds that she had heard
To locate the songline she once had walked
The handheld wooden stick our compass of hope
Day and night meld and we are never alone
As the wind whispers nouns we had not heard
As we resuscitate these names into life forms
The blood stained hills reveal the pathway
Every hill is a life soul that has given its blood
We forage to nurture the knowledge of land
Scattered by winds from the heavens above
And a slow gentle wind unveils the songline
A sudden rush of birdsong leads us to water
And the old wooden stick vibrates in my hand
We crouch to drink and crouch to birth
Soon we will separate from one to another
The blood of birth is the blood that unites us
This daughter is my grandmother and I am the hills
Nourished by the eternal winds and the words
The songline sung into our eyes and our souls
And the songs warn of happiness and harm
As I hold my daughter close to my chest
In these rolling hills is the desire for content
The stain of mining is the new born threat
So swiftly the present can become the past
As water turns to drought and the singing birds flee
The digging stick has turned serpent and slid away
Her handprint replaced to thrive in my heart
And the wind whips and wails with its love for us
And as the songline subsides back to the earth
Like the blood of death and the blood of birth
We remain to forage on these blood stained hills
26 February 2022
Koolunga
Along the Barrier Highway in mid-north South Australia are strings of majestic hills devoid of trees. Where I am parked is a junction of Ngadjuri and Danggali country; it is also massacre country. In the late afternoon these hills hold a deep ethereal presence. For me, the beauty resembles mystery, as if a secret resurrection occurs here offering a new story, or retelling a story from the ancient past. This scenery is so captivating, so wondrous I know generations from our continuum have also paused here to watch as light and shadow befriend a natural truth.
Rivulets of colours align to create peaks and valleys showcasing movement hidden by shadow. Silhouettes of poetry remind the imprints of those who walked here before, the original custodians and residents before the hint of catastrophic wealth. (The Burra Mining Company supplied enough money to support the struggling state of South Australia for 15 years.) The discovery of rich copper deposits at Burra Burra, also known as Kooringa, provoked government-sanctioned clearances; brutal removals and moral wrongs. Beyond that horrid story, love remains. Children were born here and loved ones melded together on country in ceremony and lore. As evening nears, earthly hues deepen swiftly, an illusion of moving land.
This is one piece of the true story across Australia because the entire continent is sacred land. Every resident should pause to remember what was and will be, the deep story that exists between light and dark. Every time I pause here I feel uplifted by this reverence. Conversations with country build my belonging to place, an ephemeral knowledge that can’t be removed from my heart. Proudly I have been shown to build my way back to the past, to advance to my future.
Australian Poetry Month runs throughout August and includes festivals, events, workshops and a commissioned poem of the day brought to you by Red Room Poetry. Find out more here
