Another Found Poem: Recalling All that's Dear in my Motherland

Recalling All that's Dear in my Motherland

I've read Dorothea Mackellar's poem, My Country
and sometimes treasure words like "motherland".

This land is mine, and like the poet, too, love her
jewel-sea, the ochre beauty of the Kimberleys,

hot paprika sun on a rear view mirror facing south.
Mackellars's version remains the same, of droughts,

of floods, and driving rains, but I'm bound to all that's
personal. The freedom of the road, travelling north,

back seat to a parents' final town. I'm not in exile like
Tsvetaeva or Akhmatova. I move without restraint,

photographing forests, the Puffing Billy at Cockatoo,
Gembrook pines, the Great Australian Bight, rabbits

skittering against the light. Majestic Australia: rough,
raw land that determines if you die. To survive: do not

travel without water, food, extra cash, fuel, compass,
flashlight. Use a modern car, not too old, or clapped

out. Remember dampen every fire, carry flares if lost,
or the moon will be a lonely sixpence in the night.