I wish to sow song and seed,

in soil that lay long forgotten.

For root systems rest beneath,

of banksia and wild cotton. 

Lines of blood and song,

webbed and woven below.

In the soil of womens country,

a bequest each ought to know. 

I grew from a marigold seed,

in the womb of an ephemeral flower.

I know her only by name, 

but feel her through pain and power. 

So when I longed to know my roots, 

and what rivers they were reaching. 

I sat ten moons by the stream,

and listened to silent teachings. 

And in the trunks of trees and women, 

found ringed roads of resemblance.

Canvases of painted poems,

landscapes of remembrance. 

We each have country that calls us, 

yet this one feels territorial. 

And perhaps somewhat nostalgic?

Rooted since time immemorial. 

And these seeds of song speak.

Through gums, grain and gust. 

Their sprinkled with wattle pollen.

And dotted with red dust x x