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Poem


This is a journey, a trip call it what you will
It follows the footsteps of my ancestors, and allows my thoughts too spill

Firstly let me take you back, to tell you so little of my past
Indigenous I am, from the "Stolen Generations" I did not last

This is why I must make this journey, to allow me to find the real me
To retrace the few steps I made, to rediscover what my young eyes seen

How ironic that the person I'll ride with, is the son of the then official
Whose deliberation to round up us children, the scene, locale

It's now the morn of our travel, where I look I find hard to see
The peripheral of the distant horizon, is all that really captures me

The town where I grew up so young, barely to the age of five
Perth, now bustles like a termites nest, zig zagging in busily strive

Into the bush we go, to a place where us youngsters so enjoyed
Moore River Native Settlement, which soon became children void

As I walk my arid lands, patterned in the heat of this day
I recall with every step, where us Indigenous children played

We could survive on the smallest of fruit, water we could easily find
Even the son of the then official, said that we are a superior kind

He marvelled when I spotted tracks, traces of where animals crossed
Remembering back to when I was five years old, our lands always talked

We opened up as we led our horses, introduced all those centuries ago
They opened up my lands, rivers we walked, now the white man flows

This is a journey I had to make, it's called, it's in my will
No more "Stolen Generations" no more will my culture spill

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