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