by Rick Hutton
It took a black road to get there.
The way, sometimes touching the banks of Myall Creek.
Such a gentle name, made sharp edged, by Massacre.
A hard bridge across a chain of ponds, clean, green,
with gravel sand beaches where children would love to play.
And, at a rusting iron hall, a silent sporting field and play ground,
There gathered a colorful mix, from a broad pallet.
Under a pepper tree, and the bluest of skies, the midnight oiler,
toiled his new craft, to add number seventy nine to the heritage list.
And some cheered, and some politely applauded.
Time,… to walk to the Memorial, as screeching white cockatoos,
Arose and departed like ghosts off a page.
Through the smoke, and a mark of white ochre, on foreheads,
to cleanse bodies, and perhaps, give fresh sight,
The tribe of three hundred, trod the pink gravel path,
The mix of red blood and a white hand, to stand,
Before the story stones, and hear of a June day, an age away,
When innocents lost their lives, and country lost its innocence.
Think…of a baby, its head between the soft of its mother’s breasts,
And a sharp axe, its crying, silenced, one swing before her screams.
Think … of an old woman, reaching, with hands pleading for reason,
And an elder warrior, his fight forlorn, flesh torn,
Scarred, not from noble battle, but by atrocity.
Shame… on the young black men, who were absent,
returning to find their families butchered.
Shame … on the intruders who hanged for overstepping,
the mark of decency, or for being caught in the act.
We stood, beside the stone, overlooking the place of disgrace,
We spoke words, of forgiveness, of hope, and of intent,
And we walked back to our cars and our buses,
And we drove away, along a grey road.