Wilpena Pound

When the names have gone there will still be the land.
When the teapots are smashed, the welsh dressers consumed
By termites or fire; when the accent’s not even a memory;
When Australia’s no longer an island floating above a
Pole, for it, Australia, no longer exists,
There will still be the land. The soil as burnished as
A dying coal. Sandstone arcs blown by a rock face.
Plants in endless pursuit of water. Mountain ranges
Ripped from the valley floor, their flanks a striation
Of colour, all of a piece and every piece different.
These were all here before and they will be here
After. The time in which they will cease to be will
No longer be known as time and their cessation
Will not be known. In Wilpena Pound, roast beef
On the menu, the land itself rears up like a
Crown or a noose. We are captured in its shadow,
Our inheritance revealed, our lineage clear,
All of us made convicted children of kings.