The Kong Meng mine was a chinese owned and operated deep lead mine in the township of Majorca in Victoria, Australia during the gold rush era in the 1860’s. The chinese market garden was approximately two miles away, on the other side of the predominately european township, past the old alluvial goldfield on the flat fertile soil near the creek.
This poem tells the fictional story of someone running from the mine, through the town, down the hill to the creek. There was a fair amount of racism and conflict from the European miners towards the Chinese miners on the goldfields in those days. There was also an amazing amount of environmental vandalism going on. Most of the creeks and rivers were becoming choked with sludge from the gold workings and it was only going to get worse over the next fifty years as the mining began happening on a much more industrial scale.
From Kong Meng to the market garden, I ran swiftly. Crows, startled, took flight to the tops of poppets, Men leaning on barrels paused to watch me Dash through clouds of roast mutton, purple smoke clinging to my clothes. My red shirt blazed— made me fast in their eyes, Too fast for slurs or flung insults. Through the round white mullock, Dust and mud splattering, I scrambled under drays and dodged between horses, Facing each challenge, pressing on. The Irish camp lay deserted, Save for a woman in green, her smile a sunlit revelation, Yet, I did not stop. Through tents and clotheslines, into a wasteland of gold-gone holes, I raced towards the creek; A stone bounced off my shoulder, I spun, running backwards; unable to see the calloused hand, Only hearing the echo of a far-off voice, I do not understand. Across the road, past the circus, Past the laughter of the sly grog stand, Accompanied by the hidden strains of an accordion. I slipped through a pen of pigs, Their ears twitching, parting like the Red Sea, I reached the garden flats Moving through familiar territory, shadowed by tall trees Whose crowns glowed orange in the evening sun. Down to the water’s edge I came, The creek swollen with summer’s rain, Its cold currents swift, offering fleeting sanctuary, Cleansed for a day by waters from distant mountains. Washing away the deep lead sludge, The flood embraces me, Carrying me towards something new, something unseen.
Great educational aside preceding the poem. Poem transports reader--time travel. Thank you for sharing.