You lie under the stars,
that glorious swathe
of icy brightness
in the black country night.
Down on the river flat
a beast gives tongue.
If you listen long enough
the mopoke calls
while the water
falls and rushes,
runs and rushes.
And from your house
the light spills forth.
The voices murmur
riverlike, a burst of song
and often laughter.
Do you hear?
Do you feel the clay
beneath our feet?
The crunch of frost
beneath our feet?
The roots of roses
overhead?
You were of the land.
We gave you back
with love for your being.
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