Among the ancient rocks I pace,
Scattered through the friendly
Stringybarks, and gaping waterhole,
Which feeds the parched red clay.
And gazing on antipodean stone,
I shield my eyes from glaring
Winter, solstice sun.
Then in a flash I am transformed,
As figures leap to life
From paste rubbed hands,
Primaeval man made dance.
Artist struck,
Connection made,
Timeless then,
Forever changed.
And through these rocks
I'm now become as one.
BY CHRIS JOHNSON
From Green Left Weekly, August 7, 2002.
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