Friday, May 23, 2014

Misty morning Bentley



The gate is open.
Guided to my place,
I find it
past the camp
 rolling over the valley.
"The hills are our ancestors,"
says the woman by the fire.
I hear the carillon call of the didge,
vibrations through the earth I walk upon.
My feet carry me.
I pass the source:
the Elders' Tent, where a child is playing,
a boy is playing
the didge.

"Are you a poet?"
says the woman by the fire,
"Or do you just write whatever?"

Bentley Blockade, 10 April 2014

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