Jillenduke

06/12/2020 – Poem a Day Compilation



Down in the village

The trees swayed in the gentle breeze,

Barely moving, hardly rustling,

But there was a chill in the air,

And an imperceptible ill wind

That brought with it

The ghosts of years gone by.



It spoke of folks long since passed;

The ones everyone knew by name,

And those they knew by a nod and a wave,

All tied to this place by events

Retold by nostalgic old timers

To young men and women

Who’d heard the stories more than once.



The tales grew taller with each telling –

From the humorous to the scary,

From the sad to the heart-warming,

And everything in between –

But none remained so well recounted

As the story told in hushed tones

Over the seventeenth beer of the night.



It was the story of the village itself,

Its birth shrouded in the mists of time

That only the passing

Of many generations can offer

But recalled with a distinct clarity

Which only further adds to the cryptic nature

Of its very existence.



And so it was, that fateful day,

That I sat myself down on a bar stool

That had seen some things in its time

And began a conversation

With the owner of the pub I now found myself in

So many miles from home,

Nursing a cold drink and waiting for a steak

Touted as the best in the state.



We talked about the usual fair –

The weather, sports,

And the tv shows currently doing the rounds –

But as the night grew long

And drinks passed our lips,

We touched on those things

You don’t necessarily discuss with strangers

For fear of starting an argument.



First came religion

Which wasn’t too much of an issue

What with the scant number of people

Who called these parts home,

Who actually believe

In any sort of organised religion,

And hold their spiritual beliefs

Above any specific religion.



Then came politics –

A touchy subject

When it came to a city dweller like me

Not understanding the local issues

And out of touch politicians

In their fancy homes

Running roughshod over concerns

That had plagued the village for years

With no help in sight.



As the night drew to a close,

And last drinks were being called,

The owner leaned over the bar

And asked if I wanted to hear a story

About the original inhabitants

Of this here pokey little village

In the middle of nowhere.



Naturally, my curiosity was piqued

And I settled in for what I hoped would be

A riveting, if somewhat embellished yarn

But, little did I know,

The story would go far beyond my expectations

And be one of the oddest

(Yet most beautiful)

Stories of settlement I had ever heard.



It all started more than a century ago,

When two young lovers wished not to be parted

By the looming threat of national service

For a war neither believed was their fight

So, instead of simply hiding in the city,

They’d taken off inland,

In search of a safe haven.



Some say the stole a horse along the way,

Some say they trekked by foot,

But however they made the arduous journey,

They eventually found themselves

By the side of a creek,

Hungry and suffering terribly

The early stages of heat stroke.



They managed a few sips

Of the crystal-clear water

Before falling asleep under a tree,

And you’d think that’d be the end of the story

But when they woke up

They were not under the tree

But in a cave who knows where.



Looking around,

They saw strange markings on the walls,

Almost human but not quite,

Like some sort of alien creature

Captured for posterity in ochre and stone

Waiting to be set free

To chase down wild beasts

Across the plains and deserts.



Not knowing how they had arrived there

Or even where they were,

They wandered from the cave

Into the light

Where the sun blinded their eyes

And the cacophony of bird song filled their ears

Like demons invading their mind.



The lovers knew no one would find them,

Out here in the scrub and the caves,

So they stayed where they were

Trying to make a life for themselves

But with few resources

The going was hard and tough.



Some of the berries made them sick to eat

And they were unable to catch fish or animals,

Yet they survived

For longer than anyone rightly knows how

Because food would appear by the cave entrance

As if by some kind of miracle.



Time lost all meaning,

Days flew by and seasons changed,

And the lovers wondered

What had become of the world,

The one they had left behind –

Friends, family, school chums

Who had,

No doubt,

Been swept up by the war machine

And spat out the other end

A shell of their former selves.



But they did not find the city,

Nor the friends they left behind,

Nor family who had tried to dissuade them

From the escape that they had made,

For they would be forever outcast,

Cowards looked upon with shame –

None of that was waiting

For they knew not where they were.



As they travelled in a direction,

Taking them into territory they did not know,

They felt a presence stalking them,

Though they could never catch a glimpse

Of what might be lurking in the bush

And it did not matter which path they took,

The sound travelled with them.



The night fell fast around them

And they sought shelter beneath a tree

Which should have been familiar

But had grown since last they passed this spot

What might have seemed a lifetime ago

When they first set out alone.



Exhausted from their travels,

Up hills and down gullies steep,

Skirting around the sides of boulders

And traversing paths not clearly marked,

Sleep came quickly –

A deep and dreamless sleep,

Rocked gently behind eyes still closed

By a motion they did not know.



They awoke to the realisation

That they were back in that same cave

Which had served them as their home

For however long it had been,

With those same drawings on the wall

And the same array of food placed by them

So they would not starve.



Maybe it had been a dream,

A shared hallucination,

That they had left the cave

And so they started out again,

Following paths as best they could,

Until they found themselves

Under a tree their memories knew

But they could not recall.



Once again, they drank from the stream

And fell asleep under the whispering leaves

Of the tree they should know,

Not hearing the footsteps

Of those who carried them back to their cave,

Their warm, dry, safe cave

That had sheltered them

And provided for them for so long.



Awake, again,

Scared and alone,

Or so they thought,

The lovers huddled together in the cave,

Waiting and watching,

Hoping to catch sight of whoever

(Whatever)

Had brought them and kept them here.



But no one came,

Just as no one had come any other day,

And they were alone,

Save for the birds and the possums

That scurried and soared above their heads

In tangled branches

And through clear skies.



For weeks they waited,

Seeing no one cross the mouth of the cave

That threatened to swallow

What remained of their humanity

And turn them into the creatures

That inhabited the bush,

Their clothes almost rags,

Their faces dirty

And darkened by the sun.



Time was evermore meaningless,

As they slept in shifts,

Waiting for someone

(Something)

To show themselves

And be held accountable

For this torture they suffered,

Unable to find their way out of the maze

That surrounded and captivated them.



One day they decided

They would have to make the best

Of the poor situation they found themselves in,

So they took the food left for them

And found the same berries in the wild,

The same leaves and roots and mushrooms,

And knew they could feed themselves.



They wondered why the idea so simple

Had not occurred to them before

That they should be self sufficient

And that they had been relying on

The expectation of what had gone before

Instead of making their own way.



They made a makeshift sled,

From branches and vines intertwined,

To carry what meagre possessions they had

So as to not tire so easily,

And found themselves back at the tree

That reminded them of a place

They should be dwelling in.



The water in the stream was low,

Just covering their bare feet,

And they walked along the cool pebbles,

Worn smooth over many years,

Until they came across a clearing

Where they laid their heads for the night.



A gentle breeze woke them,

A fresh and sweet-smelling air,

Not as the cave so dark and cold

And they knew that they were free

From what had kept them tied to that place

For such a very long time.



Again, they trundled down the stream,

Taking shelter when they could

From the harshness of the beating sun

And wishing for the cool sea breeze of home

Rather than this fiery wind

Which stung their eyes

And burned their skin.



Over the hill,

Smoke drifted into cloudless skies

As blue as blue could be,

And the lovers knew

There would be people

Tending such a small fire as the one they spied.



They traipsed over the hillside

Finding not the houses they had hoped for

But a small encampment of huts

Made from the same branches and vines

As their small, poorly-made sled,

Where the fire marked the centre

And several men cooked meat above.



But these were not like other men

The lovers had seen before in their short lives:

Their skin was dark as coal,

Their eyes shone like diamonds in the night –

These men they had never seen

But who clearly recognised the lovers,

And both parties eyed each other

With a healthy dose of suspicion.



Feeling brave for an instant,

Our lovers moved a little closer,

But recoiled in fear and trepidation

As the men stood to meet their gaze,

Never having met a person

Who looked quite as they.



Their sheltered city life

Had afforded them little diversity,

It was a place of uniformity

Where everyone looked the same

And sounded the same,

Where boys followed their fathers

Women followed their husbands,

And deviation from the accepted

Was frowned up,

Looked down on,

Shunned,

As the lovers had discovered

And led to their current position.



The men offered the lovers some food,

Still hot from the open fire,

Which they gladly took,

Eating at a distance,

Wary of these strangers

Who looked nothing like them

And spoke in strange tongues.



There was little sound to be heard,

The gentle crackle of the fire,

The wind in the trees,

And the soft chatter of the men

Who had so generously fed them –

The world seemed at peace for a few moments,

And the lovers forgot their tattered clothes

And the war they were escaping



As night closed in around the group,

They fell into a deep, calm sleep,

Their differences forgotten

As they lay upon the grass,

All just people under the sparkling night sky

Trying to survive.



Morning broke over the disparate band –

Humans who had found each other,

In the middle of the bush and dirt,

And they shared a small breakfast

Before the men stood and cleared the camp,

Preparing to head back to their families

And their lives.



The lovers did not know what to do –

Should they go with these men

Into the unfamiliar heart of their culture,

Or try to return to the city on their own,

A trek that could spell disaster

Both physically and mentally

If they never found their way

From the wilderness?



The men moved quickly,

Through undergrowth that would scar

The feet and legs,

The hands and arms,

The faces and souls of those

Who ventured so far

Without proper knowledge,

Years of experience guiding them

Over and under fallen trees,

Across creeks

And through what seemed interminable forest

That all looked the same to the lovers

As they followed as best they could.



Though the lovers spoke only English

And the men spoke only Wiradjuri,

They communicated with gestures, looks

And pictures drawn in the dirt

As they made the arduous journey

Back past the cave the lovers had called home

And on to the tribal lands of the men

Who had kept them fed and safe.



The tribe viewed them with suspicion,

Their experiences with white folk

Not always pleasant –

They lived in fear of missions

Of having their children stolen,

Stripped from their arms

Under the guise of a better life.



What better life awaited those children

Denied a mothers’ love,

Given over to a heartless system,

Exposed to the ravages of war,

And face-to-face with evil,

A bigoted community,

That wanted nothing to do with them?



Yet, as days turned to weeks

And weeks to months,

The lovers found themselves to be accepted

By their new friends

(Their new family)

And loved as fellow human beings

Without a need to prove themselves

But just be a valued member of society.



They learned new skills,

To hunt,

To create,

To dream,

To communicate in ways they never imagined,

With a whole new language

And a whole new set of gestures.



Though they had no fixed abode,

The tribe had made a home for themselves,

The caves a sacred site of healing and nurturing,

A place of rebirth

And a place to find oneself

As new life entered this world.



This is what it had done for the lovers,

Provided shelter

And comfort from the unknown

To which they were growing accustomed

And finding joy and beauty

In that which was once foreign.



Before too long the lovers,

Living as man and wife for all this time,

Were welcomed into the bosom of the tribe,

Their newborn child –

As one with the other children –

Growing, playing, learning

As a member of the tribe.



But suddenly the peaceful idyl was shattered

As city folk

(White folk)

Came blustering through,

Razing the land of so many ancestors,

Destroying all they saw,

Leaving only pain in their wake.



The war had ended with broken soldiers

Returning to broken homes,

Looking for jobs that didn’t exist

And lives they’d left behind,

Before pushing further and further afield

To find salvation in the heartache of others,

Of those they considered less than human.



The lovers stood with their people,

Who had taken them in

And shown them a different way to exist,

Where conflict was small,

And they worked for each other as a whole

Not for the betterment of the individual

At the expense of the many.



The tribe were forced to abandon their land

That they nurtured

And loved

And thrived upon,

Only for farmers to clear it

And devastate it for years to come

All for an immediate monetary gain.



Still, the lovers stood with them,

Living on the mission that bore their names,

Outcasts from the society

To which they had once sought to return

But now felt no connection with at all.



That mission grew and transformed

As the years and generations swept by;

The lovers passed,

Their children grew,

Their grandchildren,

And their great grandchildren

And on for five generations,

All to live in the village

Far from the city.



This was my welcome to the village –

A story perhaps true,

Perhaps a figment of an overactive imagination,

Or perhaps a blending of reality

With a fantasy

That people are not so different,

That they can live side by side

And take the best of all of them

While shedding that which harms.



It’s been many years since I first sat,

Alone and parched that day,

Upon a barstool in a dusty pub

To be told a story I could not forget

And, though I have travelled far and wide

To places of beauty and delight,

It is to this strange little village

That my heart begs to see again.



I married the barkeeps daughter,

My children were raised within in it’s borders,

My grandchildren play by the creek

Where the whispering tree grows still,

And I am as much of this story

As the lovers who fled a war

To find not only a peaceful people

But a peace of their own as well.