On Bunurong Country
Given to gladness, flesh-knitted bone
long-birthed in the bless of things, meaning
matter, the haloed stuff of what is
bit by bit becoming, as photons stretch
cells, as if light were air inflating, con-
tracting the lungs, puffed up, not knowing
the longest day’s rites of Country, tilted
toward sun
Here in sunlight a front-
yard gum steeped with buds seems eager
to break into crimson, thin spines, when branches
will shift beneath the weight of squeals and
squawks. Outside, a little raven speaks,
falls silent, reminds me of my sister.
This week’s story is attractive, after all,
one of the species god-born and godly,
swaddled, displacing the feed of kine. Birthed
into northern winter’s slow turn toward
bright, the story transplanted to longest days
It is a good story. On Facebook a friend posts
a scene of nativity against the backdrop
of a bombed-out city. Thou shalt not be
a bystander. Testify. But witness is hardly
enough. Listen. Yes. Over a popular carol
another thread, ‘War is over’. Ceasefire.
Ceasefire. Ceasefire. Who would not applaud
the angelic chorus over the paddocks of empire
singing peace with Earth?
Wind sounds
this longest morning, gentle, fresh. I am
missing the manger of communities who celebrate
an old birth under Caesar’s headcount. Some-
times the light is good. At home, though, alongside
a dear nativity into animal life, I am thinking
of you and you, who cannot go into a church
without re-entering trauma. I stand with you
Anne Elvey
Sun Glint Drift 