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.
