We came for a death,
climbed the highest mountain
cast ash
reclined on a granite slab,
our old faces tinted rose
pinked by a collapsing sun.
And for our mate, scattered about us,
grey wafers for our communion,
a slow recitation of the mountains spread,
Rame, Tinnoor, Kaye, Drummer,
Merragunegin, Coopracambra,
Yambula, Wog Wog,
a slow chant for the steps
of each climb,
the voice reading the country like a weary bell,
blackfella name,
whitefella name,
his country
our country,
drenched in memory
like the spilling sun
and tolled regretfully
by a loving tongue.