Ancestors from Calm by Pete Wild

I’m in the car heading south on the Federal Highway,
and we’re passing Lake George where they say you shouldn’t go sailing.
I look out across the water
and there’s hardly a tree to be found
and I’m stuck between angry and proud
at the work of an ancestor’s hands.

We play a game called “who’s first to see Black Mountain Tower”
and I got confused by the safety lights on Mount Majura.
And she’s friendly,
she’s like family.
And the mountains that lie close behind.
And the planning’s as good as you’ll find.
It’s the work of an ancestor’s hands.

And when our good great grandchildren
have just things that remain of us,
let’s hope they’re the good things.

‘Cause I’ve got this lingering question to do with my ancestors,
If a wound doesn’t heal, does it fester?
Feels like murder
to remember.
So, if it’s black then I must wear the band
‘cause there’s something I owe to this land
for the work of an ancestor’s hands.

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