Songlines

I have not the voice to sing this country
A song thought silenced not so many years ago
By ears that refused to hear
But it sings still
Subtley
As the dance of the wind in the leaves
The tinkle of dew droplets from the forest canopy
Or the sudden rustling of the fleetfooted wallaby
Through the teatree scrub
It is perennial as Summer bushfires and Autumn rain
Just buried below the surface of the soil
An undercurrent that flows through the country still

My pattern is a foreign one
It grates in this wild place
My skin is too pale and reactive to this environment
Yet though I have not evolved in this country
I am still dust of its dust
I am it and it is me
And though I cannot sing its ancient song
I hear its resonance
And can add my voice