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Cicada Dreaming was told to Roland Robinson in 1965 by Julia Charles of the Yoocum Yoocum clans from the area around Wollumbin in the headwaters of the Tweed River, Northern NSW and is used with permission. 

Tiny Dreamtime children, imprisoned in the earth, 
pierce the little tree roots to sip sap beneath the dirt. 

For seven years, cicada grubs, as they scratch and dig, 
keep getting so much bigger that they pop off their skins.

The final time they’re off and up: up a fence, up a trunk, up a shed.
Kids collect the shells they leave, stuck with claws on curling feet.

Buzz, buzz, buzz: cicada wings brush past my nose.
Their raucous chorus is a non-stop drone.

A thousand bodies cling on sticks and twigs and leaves.
Above my ringing ears their yellow wee rains down me.

Every year they deafen us. The noise is really bad -
crying for their mothers, screaming for their dads.

But, this year there are - none. 
I’m surprised that I feel sad.
Where have the mad things gone?

Yellow Mondays, Green Grocers,
Black Princes, Cherry Noses -

Much as they annoy me,
I hope that they’ll be back.

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