Australian grown and owned

All grown up in ‘Australia’.

Proudly Australian Grown,

And Proudly Australian Owned.

A product of standardised education,

with the bribes of specialisation.

Fostered into being,

for maximal opportunity.

To get a head start.

To get a foot in the door.

On a good life,

and a place to claim,

called ‘home’.

Competition lives vicariously,

trailing the lanes of lineage,

carrying privilege to whatever edge.

Providing what we never had,

selectively, to one of the family,

we seek betterment for our ‘selves’,

avoiding the repetitions of isolated trauma.

All of this, is more of the same,

within family lines, lies familiar fate.

Selectivity found a way to conquest,

a way of living, forced, and imbued.

Into more than lives, into the land itself.

The shadow of whiteness has bleached everything,

staining reefs of once flourishing continuity,

sinking respite and cohabitation in one grand ship,

under the banner exploration, of knowing,

the vivisector’s searching.

With knowledge comes responsibility,

the realisation of another.

To see beyond the surface of the water,

beyond reflection and its ripples,

past attention, to the sky’s outline,

and to the depths,

of each bottomless blue.

Awareness sometimes sprouts,

of a way beyond our current mode.

Butterflies in a flit of mutation,

or merely flapping to each other’s beat.

It’s hard to hear them,

those wings of the past.

They were so quiet,

so compassionate,

without pretension.

Melting and freezing,

with and alongside.

Never in

antithesis,

always in

totalising dialectic.

The present clamours as though forever…

Pretending some pastoral past.

Frac(king)turing some fictional future.

In the rattle of reverberating deviance.

Gaps, breaks, reprieve,

are all far and few.

It is hard to escape the reach,

of the invisible hand groping god.

Yet, cracks remain,

in the porcelain arm, in

visible, weathered by time.

Between atoms and tests,

of something else,

not mirage,

but fata-morganas, of oasis.

The rest on the edge of perspective.

Only from there, that other horizon,

can we be detached, and

see – our withering self,

for what it is – spiritually starved.

Only from here, this horizon,

can we elevate – ascend.

Through the lambent fixtures

of night becoming day, and day becoming night,

the blurs of dusk and dawn, of a life strobing life,

casting moments distinct, but knowing continual.

All the emptiness may be filled,

everything may be overflowing,

but nothing is yet compact.

Between, lies the breaks,

a cat swatting butterflies,

bubbles chasing children,

and us waiting,

instead of searching.

To receive things as they are.

To realise and move in understanding.

To turn our gaze and hear the flaps of butterflies’ past,

fly into the future.