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Orphaned Water

Edward S. Sorenson

The rains have flooded the coolabah hole,
    And the birds are building their nests
Where the kites take toll of the rat and mole
    At eve when the prenty rests;
But the beasts that drink there have lost their fears
    Of the hunter long since, I trow,
For buried deep are his clubs and spears,
    And it hasn’t a black man now.

‘Tis orphaned water—to tribes around
    The bounds of the vanished clan—
And none is found on the sacred ground
    Defying the tribal ban.
Only the dogs from the grey hillside
    And dens on the ridge’s brow
Come down in the hush of eventide,
    For it hasn’t a black man now.

Orphaned water—the camp where ghosts
    In the wild winds sob and sigh;
Or, so they whisper, the nomad hosts,
    E’en when the sun rides high.
Their tale unwritten, their fate unknown,
    They vanished, no matter how;
‘Tis a place that only the spirits own,
    For it hasn’t a black man now.

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