I stand on the bridge between
one side and the other and
look down from on high to the
Yarra River (our naming, of course),
with its ancient long brown curves,
and timeless steady flow from ranges,
and I wonder about times before
my lot came when the Wurundjeri
people cared for this sacred place,
bathed in the intimate work of Bunjil,
and lived connected along this place of mists
and shadows for generations boundless.

I stand.
I look.
I wonder.
And I sense the
ancient heart of this place,
this home, this country,
as a white man thinking,
as a visitor with awe,
standing high above
the flow, looking down.

 

4/7/2024