Seen first, a parabolic etching
sun-seared against sky.
At the tree’s skirt, a promiscuous spawn.
Possum and wallaby will do for them.
Best not to mourn.
On higher ground snowgums school,
each affirming each huddled other.
But here, on this fluid sweep of plain,
the principle is splendid isolation,
majesty, serene disdain.
These leaves are rounded innocence,
dew-spotted loveliness.
Swirls of bark, unpatterned, flow
sinuous, strips of soft colour,
pinks, greys, creams on modest show.
This is a world of water;
of frost and eternal water.
It slides through root and rootlet, effortlessly
drawn through bole and branch
to bleed sweet and red; honey from trees.
