I stand on burial grounds

of interconnected freshwater wetlands, swamps and lakes

seasonally flooding      cleansing

sheltering water birds, frogs, gilgies and turtles


I stand on burial grounds

drained and filled in arrogant miscalculation





blood drained in a pale-skinned landscape

gate kept by stony Roe and Forrest


                                         I stand on your burial grounds

                                         centuries of debris crush your chest

                                                                                slow your heart beat

                                         I want you to heave and gasp

                                         Come alive!


I stand on your burial grounds

listening for buried beating

yet only hear

vibrations of a city constructed of steel and reinforced concrete frameworks

and curtain walls of polished stone


am I ‘on-Country’?

(there is no red dirt here on Whadjuk Noongar boodja)

can Country hear me speak?

or is it too loud?


djiti djiti resting on electric wire

its bird song muffled

by car honks, screeching brakes of Transperth buses and early Sunday morning drum and bass

construction sites a wistful incantation to gods of greed


if I scream deep into the bitumen, will you hear me then?

will the water table draw up and flood the city?


I stand on your burial grounds

wasted tears fall on dusty concrete where wetlands used to flow