The Andamooka Storm

 

The saltbush stirred in a sullen breeze

At the Coober Pedy Mine,

Where the ground was baked to a shallow crust

With the surface cracked, and lined,

For it hadn't rained for a seven month,

And the sky was clear and blue,

While a spirit crept from the Opal stone,

At Andamooka, too.

 

At Mintabie, the wind crept out

Of a hole in the sacred ground,

It swirled and it swept across the land

As the spirit scowled and frowned,

It formed a cone and it swept around

To the Andamooka side,

And joined with the Coober Pedy wind

Like a bridegroom to a bride.

 

The cone spread out three hundred miles,

It growled as it whirled in grace,

And the dust it stirred streamed skywards up

Like a funnel in outer space,

While the men below in the Opal Mines

Hid deep in the dugout's lair,

Lay flat on the floor and held their ears

From the scream of the storm out there!

 

While less than a hundred miles away

In the depths of a grim old ruin,

Sat a slip of a girl with a surly mouth

At a table, in the gloom,

For piled up high on the table lay

The fruits of her father's life,

The greens and the golds of the Opal stones

That he'd worked for, with his wife.

 

But the girl sat quite alone in there,

And could it be, she smiled,

These sacks of rocks, not the only things

That lay by the demon child,

For by her hand lay a hammer, stained

With the colour of earth and mud,

And something that glistened and dried on it,

The red of her parents' blood!

 

She strained and heaved at the sacks of rocks

And dragged them out to the car,

Then looked across at the mound of earth

That covered a gaping scar,

She dragged the last sack to the porch

As the wind burst over the hill,

And she saw the funnel of dust that swirled

As she worked her evil will.

 

The edge of the swirling hurricane

Whipped over the shallow mound,

Then swept it up in a stream that brought

A scream of a different sound,

She ran out waving her puny fists

At the spirit of Mintabie,

But the storm had growled as the girl had howled

At the storm, to let her be!

 

The old prospector's body lay

Uncovered at last out there,

His wife beside as she too had died

With the blood running through her hair,

They stared unseeing before them now

At the daughter who screamed and cried,

But the storm drowned out the daughter's shout,

As she tumbled about, outside.

 

The funnel whirled for an hour, then left,

It ravaged the countryside,

Took a hundred thousand tons of dirt

On a whirling dervish ride,

It covered the Sydney Harbour Bridge

Left cities to choke in the dust,

To tell of a daughter's parricide

And the loss of a mother's trust!

 

While waiting out by an ancient track

For the next car passing by,

Is a sight to curdle the hardest heart,

Two corpses, side by side,

They lie uncovered, while straight ahead

In line, where their eyes had been,

Is a girl who's buried right up to her neck,

Who couldn't be quite fourteen!

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[emmajoy]

What an incredible piece of writing - it gallops along after the calm rhythm of the opening verses, setting the scene .. then, it takes off into a myth-like story, a nightmare write that could be told by camp fires and the like. The places and sites are unknown to me but I feel as if i've been taken on a demon-ish adventure finishing at that final verse!

The penultimate verse really got to me, read it twice .. it's a great description .. the fact you mention the bridge really spells out the enormity of the tornado, then .. good grief .. those lines chill the bones!

This is one of the most original and technically fine posts I've read in here.

[Jenny Nelson]

Wow! Talk about great descripition. I could picture it all so clearly. Kinda like the old west meets Stephan King. I liked this a lot... Long poem I read to the end 'cause it help my attention.

[Mark]

'And the stones he'd scraped for all of his life
And collected all in a mound
Were returned to the Earth, to the place of their birth,
Nor was ever a one of 'em found!

And the Wind and the Earth, with a cackle of mirth
And horrific guffawings of glee
They went on their way, that late Spring day:
It just wasn't meant to be!

Your writing inspires me, David, what can I say? The word "Mintabie" translated itself as "meant to be", and I was off to the races! Fabulous as ever, my friend!