Your Red Right Hand
prints cover the sandstone walls –
they are the hands of children
not the hands of vengeance.
When my great uncle
carved his name into those same sandstone walls
the battles were over.
The dust (and the farmers) had settled
and the Jardwadjali and Djab Wurrung who survived
were interned in Framlingham,
With the deviant fingers of my left hand
I trace my ancestor’s name,
feel the shame of my inheritance.
Did you stand
where I stand now
and can we ever stand together
toes digging into the sandy cave floor
listening to the whispering wind
looking over the country below