Uluru Conscience
 

 

Some come wrapped in perfumed tissues.
Most come in bubblewrap or newsprint.
All have letters admitting defeat.

They are mementoes of those
who simply honour marauding snapshots.
Till now.   They are pebbles,
they are five-kilo chunks,
they are every size of rock in between
(How did they get them aboard planes?)
taken from the Rock that cannot be moved.
They are undaring theft, insistent treaty.
 
II

Each letter is fable of misfortune:
bankruptcy of old firm,
accident with new car
that broke a child's legs,
insignificant illnesses
that just won't go away.

Each letter is equation of order:
put it there beside the handrail
halfway up on the left
next to the track behind the boulder
with the little swirling hole in it.

Each letter is variation of tact:
put it back where it belongs.
 
III

Twenty-five summers ago,
my sweaty grip to metal
as I assailed wind-shifts,
scowl of sun, the sheer climb,
and stories of those who had fallen;
then raced with other boys
to the summit along dashed line
(white paint, convoluted red rock),
my signature in the visitors' book,
my round views of the horizon
with pointed attention to the Olgas
(our destination next day),
my slow descent with sidetracks
for collection of rain water,
final hand over hand to ground.

Our only transgression, we thought:
swimming the silent pool beside the Rock
(the sign said By Order, but no explanation
to deny heat, dust, boys' daring).

I did not know we were termites
crawling about a cathedral,
did not know I was tasting
holy water as I swam.
 
IV

I have only photos
that minute by minute
track chameleon spectrum
as rock mirrors sun
in plunging blood shades
before sway of night.

No amount of silver nitrate,
shuttered light, could snatch
that leviathan's soul,
not that I was trying.
 
V

Eagles of feather or steel
wheel above abrupt poise
of seasoned desert bedrock.

Bare or Nike feet
trample over or around
to sound of slotted coins.

From beneath, tremors
felt in bowels,
not by feet or machine,

till rainbow coils
unravel, stiffen,
shed dessicated dreams

that divide the land,
then shimmer scales
of new stories

where rock is always
more than itself
and never less than us.

Desert winds flicker.
Sunsets spin colours that gape.
Those who listen, return.
 
 

Earl Livings

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