By Geoffrey Dobbs
A once sacred place
stripped, exposed
and violated.
Gaping nakedly.
We hesitate, peering in -
embarrassed, maybe by such simplicity
seeing prints of hands – and nothing more.
What brought them to this place?
Who were the last man and child,
to fill their mouths with thick, sour ochre
and lifting up their hands
spray their presence on this rock?
Lost, the memory, and the meaning.
Lost, the joy of man and child, hand in hand,
flesh and bones breathing in the sun,
blood beating through ancient veins
as they breathed at one the with sheltering trees
and winds’ sigh.
Dingoes stripped and scattered their bones
trees drank their sap,
ants devoured their last fragments
and no trace left but the handprints,
only the handprints.
And a vacancy – an eternal absence,
a gap in nature.
Turning our backs, we return along the metal ramp,
past the felled trees and the toilet block,
to the souvenir shop, Made in China,
and the bistro, offering Mediterranean Cuisine.
in a paragraph.
(Image by Don Pinnock on Unsplash)