Ulladulla

I was fond of the way that the name

tumbled off my tongue, Ull-a-dulla…

The perfect holiday place,

a safe harbour, in a safe country.

In the boughs of squiggly gums that grew

where Budawang people had once walked on soft grass,

my brothers would laze and listen to my father,

who would sun-bake on the jetty and tell stories

about life before them.

And the family dog would turn into a savage.

Her senses overflowing with the thick stench,

of bones miles underneath the sand,

too deep to reach us.

And my mother and I would swim,

the beach sand was always white.

Like the soft underbelly of a fresh caught bream,

stretched out next to the waters edge, gutted and bleeding.

I imagine now, a tall Indigenous man standing on the jetty,

of the family holiday home.

And with open arms, he begins to laugh at me,

Safe harbour. Safe country.