Diggings

The old lady
Sat on the earth
Her wana rested by her side
One point on her thigh
The other on red grains of sand

The old lady bent her torso forward
Her left hand leading her into the ground
As she rose
She brought moist, cool sand to the surface

As we walked
It rained in the woodland
Through the trees
Over small undulating hills
The ground shimmered in morning light

We could see the diggings
Made by woylies
On their nightly journeys
Eating truffles in the dark
The diggings
Like vessels
They held the rain
And fed the woodland

Deep underground
The water sits
With grains of sand
Cradled in stone

The old lady digs
Still, she digs

Now, she leans so far forward
Her face glances down the burrow
Then her rhythm shifts
Her arm leaves the burrow
Her hand swirls back past her hip
Then forward overhead
Thwack
In a heartbeat
The wana by her side
Receives the blow to bungarra’s neck

A bub of three or four
Plays in a small plastic bath
Nestled in the shade of a farm ute
As the sheepdogs play with her
And drink the water
Her grandfather digs
Straight down into the earth
With a spade
As he works
He listens to the radio
News
Cricket

Country Hour
Ancient beach sand piles up
Making way for a star picket
Each one banged into the ground
Over and over

Deep below
Water sits

This piece is derived from memories of the Ngaanyatjarra Lands, Yued Noongar, and Wilman Noongar Boodja (Country) and written where I live and work on Ballardong Noongar Boodja. I would like to extend deep gratitude to the custodians of these lands for all time.