Signs of the new millennium
At the shopping centre
a ten year old talks
into a mobile phone
aloneSomeone
all powder and peroxide
snarls at her septuagenarian mother
a woman old enough to be my mother
(and I've seen forty summers)
wears mini skirt and stockings
sheer and blackDriving home
on the radio, Ernie Dingo
speaks some Wudyadi
You white fellas, he translatesThe unknown syllables
spill into my car
like the song of desert wind
the flow of subterranean streams
or tears on a rockAt home the paper
tells of attempts
to extinguish
Native TitleI shiver at the coming
forty winters