Cicada Song

Cicada Song

(Australia Day Song)


26 January 2019



A voice strikes chord

in the silence

where sits a cicada

who cries out

for the creatures

who burn in the bush.


They mourn

for our Mother

who turns to ashes

before our eyes.


We choke

with no more air

to breathe

and gasp

with disbelief

that Our Mother



The cicada

sings to you

with love and tears

that turn to rain.


There is no more

give and take

from a shameful world

filled with materialism

and greed.


A gaping hole

cuts so deep

that blood spurts

from the trunks of trees

as they bury

their shadows

in embers of soot.


The stark silence

from every direction

is interrupted

by creaks and groans

from breaking wood.


The roar has gone.


Stark skeletal forms

pierce the haze.


Spindles and black thorns

are shrouded by

billowing clouds

of poisonous smoke

and fumes.


Where ashes

were once green

the animals are crying

and that makes me cry too.


In a place of thorns

the creatures sit

and cry out

for the sun

that turns black.


They mourn

the dry land

where our Mother Earth

breaks into pieces

like porcelain fallen.


We shatter

with grief

and gasp

with disbelief

as Our Mother

turns to dust.


I am walking

on this road

to the end

of the world

along the waters

that twist and turn

in every direction

where they take me

step by step.


The ground

next to water

brings solace.


The reflections

in the stream


the heavens.


They are


and shiny.


Glistening veins

strewn across

the landscape

quietly drift.


Without warning

they slowly rise

to the brink,

and overflow

with power

beyond control.


Could this happen

now as I speak?


I lose my footing

and float away

sinking deeper

below the surface,

the whole world

above me

weighing down,

filling my lungs.


I become a fish

and watch

the world above

through ripples

and currents

that change

the view.


The transformation

is a prism

into rainbows

of air and light.


Gold wings

turn to colours:







Translucent light

through transparent skin


into vapour.


Through the currents,

the chirp of a body

resonant and clear

can be heard

far away.


A voice resounds

in the mist,

a song from a harp

pure and clean,

gentle as the air.


And then a gasp

out of water;

born anew

and ringing

with a choir

of millions.


The bell chambers

of the living

unite in one

defiant act.


Deafening sound

pierces the air.


The patterns

of the dance

are fleeting,


by the ephemeral

surface tensions

of sympathetic resonance.


They echo

against the faces

of unseen cliffs.


The last light

grows cold.


An unexpected gust

poses unprepared threats

upon exposure

to a northerly facing hill.


Shadows stretch.


Silence sweeps

across the valley

once more.


A gentle howl

bemoans the slopes.


Pebbles and stones

begin to roll

against each other

forming a race

in one direction

marked by the

pummelling clicks,

tacks and cracks

of uneven surfaces.


Minerals collapse

against each other

tumbling uncontrollably

over the edge.