First Nations poetry or creative writing

And in those days
there was one of him and a thousand of them,
and in these days none are left—
neither a pale man with kangaroo-grass hair
nor a camp of dark singers mocking by the river.
and the trees and the creatures, all of them are gone.
 
But the sad river, the silted river,
under its dark banks that river flows on,
the wind still blows and the river still flows.
And the great broken tree, the dying pepperina,
clutches in its hands the fragments of a song

Judith Wright, in ‘Old House’

A wonderful photography exhibition in the Elizabeth Sackler feminist gallery in Brooklyn Museum. Reclaiming black slavery, body, mind and power. Nona Faustine. Too bad about Sackler association – I thought they’d taken down the names. Ill obviously miss next meeting jut hopefully Kate and I are meeting up for renegrade MMS international branch get together.