Brenda Saunders: Two Poems

Channel Country

 

Each year big rains leave the Diamantina

in flood. Water spreads into channels

sinks in slow streams to lakes down south.

 

Drifts of bark and twigs catch in the fork

of trees like forgotten nests of the cockatoo.

 

Lines of mud mark the slurry rushing through.

 

Tiny micro-life survives in soil washed down

with the spill. Drying in silt it lifts off, flies

on the wind in a red-dust storm.

 

Spangled perch adapt to life in puddles.

 

Crustaceans survive the dry season buried

under sand. They wait for the big wet, breed

in the warm flow as the tributaries run.

 

Frogs too lie under silt for years, waiting

for floods to take them into deeper water.

 

*

 

The wet season ends once more in a heat haze.

A smell of yellow hangs on the air. Insects

 

search for honey among flowering gidgee,

keep up a steady burr as if intoxicated

by nectar. Warm sunlight after rain.

 

Little corellas fly low over lignum brush,

swing and dip on a spinifex stalk, waiting

for a spider to come their way.

 

A tiny planigale returns to find a home

in clay-pans cracking in the sun, a baby

secure in the pouch. She disturbs

 

a swarm of gnats lifting from moist shadows

sends them flitting too fast for the naked eye

to catch, their span of a life shorter than a day.

 

An easy prey to stillness, sharp eyes

quick tongues waiting in the tussock grass.

 

Saltbush runs wild on the mallee plain.

On the road heading west, trees thrive

from run-off after rain. Honey-eaters

 

no bigger than a leaf shimmer and dash,

hang upside down, their red breasts unseen

 

among the dazzle on a bush cherry tree.

 

A pygmy glider hovers over flowering scrub,

steers her way with a feathery tail, to pluck

the sap of mulga blossoms. Small as a mouse

 

she builds her handball nest in tree trunks

or takes a ready-made instead. Cradles

her litter in sandy pockets out of danger.

 

She waits, knows the value of stillness.

A ready prey to night hunters, the paw

 

of a feral cat roaming the rusty plain.

Brenda Saunders

 

 

Bush Tucker Tour

Witjuri

We take a well-worn track out to a stand
of desert wattles, watch
the women dig deep, hack at the treasure
curled safely among the roots
They offer a native snack, a bush challenge
to visitors from the city
—a creamy morsel wriggling on a stick
soft and nutty in the mouth or
a roasted puff-ball, the comforting hint
of chicken held on the tongue

*

Grandmas with dillybag and stick
once sustained whole families
—the yield from a single tree
an easy meal to fill a hunter’s belly
We smell the familiar scent of wattle
as they smoke tnyeme brush
sip a healing tea, bitter as any bush medicine
Children find us a hidden treat
Honeydew, a native sweet to lick
from the underside of leaves

*

Honeybag

Aunties talk of helpless slaves kept in tunnels
their swelling bellies heavy with nectar
They serve as rich store-pods
feed worker-ants in dry seasons
We join the search for sugar ants, thump
the ground, trace the hollow places
as they dance in line, “Sing-up” the Tjalpa Tjalpa
with their digging sticks
bite supine honey-pots, gold backs
ripe for plucking

*

Old men share their tribal know-how
tell of a hive close by the waterhole. Worker bees
swarm to a bloodwood tree, dazed by the scent
of their favourite ntewale blossoms
They have no sting, no defence against black hands
or lizards camped in their honey tree
waiting to grab a juicy treat
Back at the hive, men find the hole, drain honey
on a stick, show us sugarbag
an easy steal, hidden inside

Brenda Saunders

Witjuri: witchetty grub
tnyeme: wattle bush
Honeybag: sugarbag, wild honey
Tjalpa Tjalpa: Honey-ant Dreaming
ntewale: sugar blossom

(Arrernte language)