In this land of timeless dreams
possessed by landscape immemorial,
the fretting sandstone wind
runs free to glazed horizons,
the languid dingo lazily lopes
as the pinkish galah wheels and screams.

Culture in numbing stasis
frozen by unchanging primitivism,
black stick figures waving spears
and melting with the solar furnace shadows,
speckled with the rationale of cheap destruction
and the wracking pain of radical recidivism.

Migrating Pleistocene epochal nomads
scratching patterns in limestone caves,
leaving trails of bones and shells and flints
and rock-art hands and ochre prints,
the membrane of ancient human culture
stretched taut over vast terrain.

The tribal mentality of customised totemism
strangling any notion of territorial property,
no king, no council, or charismatic leader
to give order to a web of complex arcana,
the songs and stories of passing myth
from old to young expressed hopefully.

Technically weak but manually adept
and capable of unyeilding yogic self-control,
gone walkabout with woomera and firestick
skillfully reading the invisible and unbelievable,
wandering through the static charge of timeless ecology
where permanence is dreamily inconceivable.

Painted up like pantomime skeletons
these Antipodean nymphs of a hellish Arcadia,
coated in rancid fish oil and animal grease
with ochre, beach sand, dust and sweat,
a recipe smoked in the prehistoric fires
of the unblinking dream-time denizens.

Draped in a cloak of everlasting stars
the Great Mother will pluck them from the day,
as they slowly turn their broken backs
on the rapine march of progress,
wanting and needing nothing at all
as the setting sun gently leads the way.