Acacia all black
from the bone cup
          and a daughter born
          with a blue quandong
          sucked to the stone
          between her lips,

the shadow
of a camphor laurel leaf
                    red bellied and
                    heavy at the surface,
its branch eaten smooth
by a current of pearls

          and the velvet
          at the heart of a banksia
          broken under a foreign heel.

Lomandra’s new shoot
ripe for basket weaving
and a tongue
speaking language

and something else
for those of us
who can’t remember how,

                    with words wilted
                    that don’t touch the ground,
                    too bitter in the mouth
                    for the familiar heartbeat
                    of bush:

                              lo
                                   man
                                        dra

                              and other plants, uncommon,
                    whose seed need burning
          and knowing hands

and then the blood
resilient and resinous like sap
falling inward,
          beating for country
          I do not know
behind eyes open,
dreaming of dreaming
and undreamt too.

Under ashen silt
and the grey in between,
a quartz casting light
through muddied waters
alive with freshwater grayling

          and if you listen closely,
          you can hear the gold
          in the riverbed.

Read the rest of Overland 239

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