Cicada Song

(Australia Day Song)

K. E. Moore

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.