Welcome To Country

3rd in the 'National Treasures 2022' competition

I lay down on the soft dust-track and fall into a drowsy slumber; but I can still see the faint silhouette of the blazing golden campfire beside my limp body, and as it slips away, the fiery sparks and embers take the form of glinting stars, like tiny, distant knives and bullets, in a thick velvet-indigo sky covering the sepia-red earth, the feeling closely resembling that of a protective quilt. There are people of dark skin sprawled out in sleep around a mellow, crackling miniature conflagration, which is presently licking at the ends and tips of dry twigs and red bark. My eye catches a beautiful black woman, and I know it must be Great-great Grandmother Annette. I am confident that she’s in heaven, somewhere in the stars, an angel looking down on me-
The picture is starting to spiral; spinning me out; warm, bright yellow and bold scarlet lines and dots swim in my irises; there are ebony-coloured citizens striding along a bright string that is rippling about like the gentle waves that appear in the next image; there are elderly males gripping large, heavy-looking spears standing in the ocean, pushing the weapons into the pristine, sapphire-blue water and taking a brief moment to pull it back up to reveal several glimmering silver fish at the end of it; there are several youngsters wading into the sea and chuckling mischievously to themselves. Five of them are huddled on the sandy golden shore, drinking coconut-water, so sweet I can almost catch an aromatic scent from it. There are bistered women dancing and clapping rhythmically behind them, laughing jovially. The vigorous squirming feeling in my stomach eases as the sun glows down on a beaucoup of eager, ravenous people gathered around a sprightly, newly made flame. The fish is lowered into the flickers of brilliant orange…
It is Great-great Grandmother Annette. She is back, but the image I see is strongly blurred; I blink, and suddenly realise that my eyes are flooding: she is laying on billowing ochre spread on the sand; traditional members stare solemnly at the in front of my teary pupils. An elder pauses his gaze and closes his eyes, brows furrowed. He dusts the debilitated, deceased structure with another thin layer of red ochre, and multiple people begin to weep or sob. I am the loudest of all; but I’m unaware of them; the picture is churning with a forceful pull-
I groan uneasily, my faded grey clothes twisted around like a straitjacket; it’s in almost-pure rags. I have finally woken from the dynamic dream. But I am sure it was real, because I can still hear singing, clapping, and laughing on, miles and miles away, on the Australian beach…
Australia was Aboriginal land, is Aboriginal land, and always will be Aboriginal land.
Welcome to Country.

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