5. Twin Falls Reconciliation
for Lisa Bellear
Now several hundred metres up a snaking gorge,
we creep into your arms like lichen moss on dusk.
If your sheer drop into mist is a dream
then let me sleep in your sands -
take me in,
to the melting heat of slow time, your timeless hum.
'Kakudju' or 'Gagadju' -
the steep sheeting of cliff escarpment shadows us,
you are all I will sing
in this hour, what I have known.
I am seeded, planted, cannot return.
Take me in, Gagadju, old mothering flooplain.
White sand and splash pool, warm caves and fine silt.
Through your several stages of cascading falls,
your thoughts carve stones, ancient, recycling
the old tangled vines of your monsoonal hair.
Our deep deep knowledge.
Never lost, preconscious.
As a trickle, or rising in a fine mist -
in those secret sheltered rocky places,
1500 million years of encoded silence
draw me in, say my name -
The plateau is in retreat, pushed back by forces
tolerated but unknowable,
'Kakudju' or 'Gagadju',
how long must we wait for your return?
The clap of lightning sticks and the hot springs,
behind the escarpment of Arhnemland plateau,
the carpentaria palm with the bright red berries.
Sentimentary rocks faulting and jointing,
like clashing cultures now fitting together,
carving and reshaping these Twin Falls,
combining at the base, the one rushing
voice, draining water off its rocky surface,
to form our clear creeks and muddy rivers.
the wet the wet, the wet the wet, the wet
the wet – the boisterous chorus of frogs.
The green tree frog has caught the rain
in his throat, his eye holds old memory.
The smell of a dingo’s golden coat before rain
and our coming. The ripple of tyres on bitumen,
the wet didgerido wood glistening in the sun.
The first knock-me-down grass, the hushing
and whispering savanna, the hoarse dry voice.
The warming termite mound is a barometer
of change, season’s change, we’ve changed –
We have travelled this way before and together.
Now we will travel forever. We are guided words
and all our songs have already been sung here.
We did not lose you -- we were all lost.
But reconciled, we will be found again.
See how this land and time replenish themselves.
The dry season has come, Gagadju.
In this climate there can be no tears.
