On hard rock ridges in The Kimberley –
red flushed cheekbones on an ancient face –
grooves scar the surface
where Jaru sharpened their spears.
Wild extremes of weather
haven’t worn these stones flat,
millennia haven’t erased the patina
of one civilisation before another,
the one before us now.
In my mind I feel grooves
of dogma, prayers and chants,
and the delicious incense
of candles snuffed after Benediction.
Torrential rains have questioned them,
wild winds proved weaker than their hold.
At night in the yard I stand, evaluating
their mark, their meaning,
and turn away
unsatisfied.