by ANN CURWOOD
An Island mirage calls forth the lost, hungry souls of rejected masses,
Wretched convicts hardened by the slums from out they crawl.
Hope springs from tales of Crusoe, eyes closed to all but palms.
Virgin land remolded by tales of ancestors long passed,
Births castles reimagined, kick the humpy to the curb.
Crystal shores spew forth the froth of wanton waste,
Tended with love for thousands of years now a carved and served up plate.
Governed by the fairest, gates closed against black unless into slavery it goes.
Sixty thousand years in waiting for two hundred years of careless greed.
Felled is the ancient Eucalypt that bleeds its fragrant sap,
Its occupants sent homeless to cling the barbed stumps it makes.
Home is where the heartless is, ever present the chip of poor beginnings,
Groveling ministries desperate to gain approval offshore,
Lost is the way of the melting pot of disenfranchised.
Shun the light that’s offered, cling to connections forever lost,
Fear to open ignorant minds, vote No to feeling enlightened.