MY SISTERS OF A DESERT DREAMING.

We gather, as writers in the park,

Sisters of a desert dreaming.

Beckoned to meet at Lion’s Gate

A gate known by many names,

Henry Lawson’s amongst them.

We meet and greet with smiles and hugs.

We wander down pathways to find a shady tree

And nestled down, share a picnic repast, and rosy tea.

Great bats lie vertically in the noonday sun.

Aboriginal maidens swish-swash walk on by, twirling branches of gum leaves.

The men walk by with skin-stockings marked with traditional designs,

They jest with us and give performers’ laughter.

They have just performed for the Governor of NSW at an event,

The launching of a sandstone sculpture that mimics nature’s own.

Batman, in his ranger suit, counts the number of bats in our tree.

A bat’s dropping falls on my hand.

I casually wipe it away. It may carry disease.

Culling time is soon to come, he tells us.

The bats will be blasted with sonic music and they will fly away from here.

Will they spit in fear and spread the dreaded virus where they roost

In some suburban backyard, finding cats, dogs and humans to infect?

Better to bag them up and place them in the bin.

I would rather leave them be, but the date is set for their demise.

We lie on the grass energized by the earth’s magnetic touch.

Talk is of wisdom and worries, chanting exit worries strategies

Peace descends on this edenic masterpiece as we celebrate this day of new beginnings.