Journey

A lone tree, sitting, stuck in the middle of nowhere.

Now the journey begins,
lying in the dirt, hidden from life.
When I was let free I saw fire, a red smokey flame.

Humans were crowded round,
but one stood out.
A little girl, about ten years old.
Suddenly, blackout.

When I woke lines of black were tattooed over my body.
Short, hazel, thick body,
Hard but soft.
Bumpy, strong, ruff.

I am a memory to this girl,
When she looks she see’s, the red dirt,
sunsets, kangaroos,
Grandma and Grandpa, the hotel room and the sunrise.

Two lone clapping sticks, sitting, happily snug in the middle of her lap.

Reflection
I chose these aboriginal clapping sticks because they tell a great story and they really remind me of Grandparents who live in England so I rarely see them and I thought it would be an interesting object to write about. This poem represents the “journey” of the clapping sticks and of my holiday in Uluru. So when planning ,first I wrote down what it reminded me of and then I touched, smelt, tasted and listened to the object, then I put the senses down on my page.