The difference is in the little things
And the big things –
Black swans conduct mute patrols
Of mangrove crannogs.
Dusty green-grey eucalypt leaves
Don’t fall in the fall.
The Earth is red with aboriginal
Even they do not remember.
The soul of this broad, stretched,
Is in ochre soil.
Throbs deep beneath parched bush and salt pan.
Not in people, really (at least not the white folk)
Clinging to the margins – we suck shrunk land dry
And gloss the desert over with pampered grass –
Force an existence that is foreign here
And pretend that somehow we belong