My grandfather was the bush, the coast, salmon gums, hakeas, blue-grey banskias
Wind-whipped water, tea-black estuaries, sun on grey stone
My grandfather was born on Country, was buried on Country
His bones are Country
I am the road.
I was born off Country, in that city
I hear, less than two-weeks old I travelled Country
A bassinet on the back seat of the Kingswood
I remember travels more than I remember a home
I am the road.
My father is the beach, the peppermint tree, the city back when, before it was a city
My father is the ancient tall-tree country, between his father Country and that town
My father is World War II, his father was a soldier
My father wandered, worked on rail, drove trucks
I am the road
Campgrounds up and down that coast were the childhood home of my heart
Where my memories fled, where my happiness lived
Campgrounds in somebody else’s stolen country
I am the road
The road unrolls before me
My rusty old troopy wipes oily sweat from its underside on the asphalt
Says ‘I am here, I am here’
The engine breathes in, breathes out, pants faster than I can
Sings a wailing thundering song
Wraps its steel self around me and keeps me safe, a too large overcoat
I am the road
I slept, for a time, on the streets of Melbourne
No country, no home, as faceless as the pavement
I was dirt on the streets, as grey as the stone, as the concrete
I am the road
We showed explorers where the water was
They lay their road over our path, from water to water
Lay a highway over their road, tamed my country with their highway
I am the road
My Boodja has been stolen, raped, they dug it up, took some of it away
They killed our boorn, killed our yonga, our waitch, damar, kwoka
Put in wheat and sheep, no country for sheep my Boodja
My Country, most it is empty, the whitefellas have no use for it
Except to keep it from us
Because we want it back, need it back, because they can
I am the road.
People ask where I am from, I cannot, simply answer
To mob, I am Noongar, South Coast. I am Banksias, wind on waves on stone
To travellers, whitefella nomads, I am from where I live – that caravan over there
To whitefellas from Melbourne who see how I drink my coffee
I must be from Melbourne, I am not Melbourne
I am the road
One day wish to, hope to, dream, buy some of my grandfather’s country back
Pay the thieves for stolen goods
Theft is a crime, receiving stolen goods is a crime
Until one day
I am the road.
Image: Md Al Amin / flickr
