An engraver buzzes.
Water laps at oyster-covered rocks.
An Aunty sings up Country.
Layered paints on still (wriggling?) bodies.
Wrinkled hands paint
Intricate lines
of
red
yellow
white.
A goanna. The sun.
There is singing and dancing and feet kicking up dirt.
There is such joy in documenting our ceremonies.
Right at the end,
You think it’s a painting.
The final shot, how could it be so still?
Her voice can still be heard.
Slowly, the paint fades.
Slowly.
Behind it, always,
Was a sandy shore.
Flat waters.
You can hear the waves lapping at the shore.
When did she stop speaking?