Advent 2019

Sunshine...
  a gentle breeze...
    birdsong.

Golden paddocks
  harvested or waiting.
The drone of a distant header.
The revving of a grain truck
  passing through town.

The nearby creek
  dried to a string of puddles;
    rain both a hope and a memory.

Christmas cheer an anticipation;
  preparations for the festive season -
    presents mailed to distant family,
      an annual letter to friends.

The sure anticipation of a new year
  and summer -
     hot
      dry
        dusty.
Maybe the relief of a thunder storm.
  Almost certainly bush-fires.

So life goes on ...
  Individual lives come and go;
      but life itself goes on.

Winter Drought

Winter did not come that year
with a storm,
or rain, or even wind;
just an invasive,
chilling cold.

The sun shone
but, somehow,
its rays were all light,
no warmth at all.

Clouds rolled in from the south-west
but then moved on eastward
without the desperately needed rain.

Frost preceded each new dawn  
and, when it was too dry,
the dreaded "black frost",
leaving gardens
and even hardy roadside natives
dead, burnt black.

Water pipes froze overnight
and burst, 
flooding  homes,
and overtaxing local plumbers
who just could not cope.

We all froze, 
but then,
in our north facing sun room, behind the glass,
there was afternoon warmth;
in a well cooked meal with a glass of red wine, 
there was nourishment;
by a cozy wood fire with a good book,
there was comfort and friendship;
in bed, snuggled under an eiderdown quilt,
there was rest and refreshment.

The freeze will stop.
The rain will come.
We all will survive.

This winter drought
will be followed by the excitement of spring,
and the heat and dry of summer,
and the promise of autumn,
and then winter again.

Who knows when,
but it will rain.

We will survive.

Purlapa

Nyaratja was short
and close to stout
by the standards
of local males.

He was
a happy man,
always smiling,
often laughing.

Some piranpa
just considered him
a likeable and
helpful clown.

One night
I was invited
to attend
a purlapa.

The singing
and dancing
went on
all night.

Just on dawn
the singers
became
more excited.

Out of the dawn
two figures appeared
dancing -
… advance …
… pause …
… stamp …
… turn to face …
… turn to front …
… advance …

Now lit
by the rising sun,
the dancers towered closer,
under enormous headdresses -
… advance …
… pause …
… stamp …
… turn to face …
… turn to front …
… advance …

A scream went up
from the women
and children,
then ritual flight.

Singing ceased abruptly,
for quiet conversation,
as the dancers
were disrobed.

Headdresses were removed,
sacred items dispatched
to the sacred valley
behind the nearby hill.

Nyaratja was one of the dancers,
a towering primordial hunter -
a man of significance
in his own culture.

"Purlapa" is a dance of Aboriginal people of northern and central Australia.
"Piranpa" are non-Aboriginal "whitefellas".
"Nyaratja" means "this one". I use it rather than a real name, in respect for privacy of the individual and because of the custom of changing names  whenever someone with the same name dies.