Midway between the Spit Bridge and Manly

on a sandstone overhang jutting like a rock shelf

in the heights of Balgowlah, two benches

look out between North and South Head across

the Pacific blue towards Aotearoa.

 

A scenic walk around the arc of the coastline

Sydneysiders and tourists trek to the high

point at Dobroyd Head – a stunning vista

two hundred and seventy degrees of ocean –

Arabanoo Lookout they call it – ideal spot

to watch migrations of humpback whales.

A track bearing your name snakes off to a

higher peak. I follow this trail searching

for you – Arabanoo.

 

Out here rocky outcrops stab the skies

the raw, salty smell of the sea stings my nostrils.

Below me, the bones of your loved ones lie hidden

under the colonial layers of Kayeemy in the cemetery

of Sydney, underneath the hype of Australiana’s

harbour side real estate every crevice, every cove on

every beach – a tomb where black bodies have

turned to dust.

 

A sign on the headland claims you – 

 first Aboriginal man to live among Europeans.

Here begins your public life – caught in

the claws of the colonizing spider – spun

into webs of words – bound and trapped in the

entangled net of history’s timeless, voiceless others.

Your silence screams out.

 

Where are you in these words that scratch

and claw at the surface of the life you once had?

Sydney’s short history clings to this cove

like the marooned crew of a sinking ship.

Their crudely cobbled stories spin

the gossip of history that nails every black life

to the page. And you – first to be crucified.

 

Down on the beach crowds come and go

waves rise and break – roll in roll out

in endless rhythm whitefellas walk over your story.

I listen for your voice above the eternal pulse

of the ocean below.