Down at the weir the smashed glass around
the bases of rocks is reflected upon.
This used to be the aboriginal fisheries.
There's a postcard of a man, from the 1800's,
on sale in the Aboriginal Cultural Museum.
His healthy dark skin in the sun &
the yellow belly that leapt in & out of the rocks
at least with a chance.
There was a time,
when the water rushed strong & clean
through the stone,
beneath the cries of the black cockatoo,
ibis & hawks,
that flocked to watch the leap of fish.
As the river rushed on, from Walgett
through Bre to Bourke, around the bends
towards the west.
Down at the weir there's a lot of introduced
plants, garbage bins & moselle flagons.
There's a lot of smashed glass, fighting
& swearing.
Even though the publicans don't sell bottles,
only cans.
There are tired old hawks by the tired old Darling
trickling down through the weir.
Glass being smoothed out beneath the water.
There's glass in Biame's footprint too.
"But it wasn't always like this", he told me,
talking behind the counter
inside the museum.
"I'm going back about 20 years now, the river
was even a little bit cloudy then.
But there was a time when mussels grew
black & strong in the duck weed & when
the rivers were crystal clear.
It doesn't mean it can't be like that again."
Walking on the way home,
I heard an odd scratching noise up in a council gum.
It was a raven with a yogurt carton in his beak,
who cocked his head to one side & said:
You are here, make the most of it.
