Glenrowan Morning
Glenrowan is an odd place, on the main street there are the cafes, the tourist shops, the theatre all trading on the Kelly Gang. But up over the railway line, you are behind the hustle and bustle and here is the site of the Inn. There is nothing left. The place was ready for an archaelogical dig when we visited, all the trees have been cleared and it was fenced in by plastic netting. Nothing to see really. Until you began to listen to what the land said, the wind, the trees, the memory is still there.

Chill morning light
Silence beneath dark hills
No bird, no whisper of wind
Just pure stillness
Dark soil, broken bricks
And a plastic fence

A catch of breath
The taste of smoke
And shouts on the air
Gunshots, curses, flames
And shadows that ripple
Behind insubstantial windows

The hills draw closer, to listen
To witness the witnessing
to acknowledge the memory
And we wait for the signal
but it does not come
No saviours in the reliving

Ironclad men out of shadows
Stepping, weapons raised
And we flinch from the shots
Knowing the voice that we hear
Shouting angry defiance
As the bullets ring on hard metal

Silence comes with one shot
These faint walls framing
An image of a man
Fallen, still, dying
And he is gone, spirit soaring
Yet still we stand mute

Able only to remain in vigil
Honouring the two inside
Respecting their choices
Understanding, blessing, releasing
Watching as flames consume
Turning to follow bloody footsteps

Broken and bloody he stumbles
Spiraling into oblivion
But it is not done
And the hills lean closer
As he stands to defy yet again
Weeping as he falls

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