Writing| Ada Cottage Writing |
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Predictable, their year-long trip, Tasman fields to Cape York's tip, Hunter grapes and Griffith berries Or Glenrowan, to pluck the cherries, Hunt the harvests, earn their crust Lifting wealth from blood red dust. Every harvest brings them here, Locust plagues, year after year, Strip the fruit then find a mate, Do courtship dances, fornicate - As they flit off to harvests fresh I thirst for absent juice and flesh. Now summer's furnace powers down, Backpacks gather in back-roads town. I cultivate one blossoming prize - Strawberry-blonde and cornflower eyes - Tourist pilgrim of spiritual trails, An acolyte for my legendary tales. 'Life was called to this empty land In Dreamtime, when ancestors sang And chants pass down their sacred lore "Thank the earth for the gifts it bore". Where blacks trod lightly, blood-tithed to earth, Barren altars mark the white-skinned curse.' Along songlines, through bush we walk To where my Dreaming, Eagle-hawk Flares scything talons, thunder-beat wings, In twilight nightmare Carrion Crow sings - Not Dreamtime this but sacred site Ripe fruit reaped in frenzied night. Crimson dawn glints on a blade, My seed is planted, a jewel laid In rusted soil turned by steel spade My offerring to the land is made - All thirsting quenched, all debts repaid. |
| Submitted for assessment, as much because it was the only serious one that came close to being 35 lines. Thanks to everybody who offered criticism on the content. At this point in time, I'm no longer sure why I wrote it, I have to say. |
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