Sunday Trees

fallen 'banksia-man'

High on his Limb

high on his limb the banksia man stood in

for windmills

tilting target of a Quixotic Honeyeater

slain by age and storm

x

Sunday Trees

banksia

Sunday Trees



(probably a grey gum)

Sunday Trees

almost Hallowe'en

Sunday Trees

The Old Man in the Tree

This wood is sacred: it is forbidden to harvest here:

Not mushrooms or berries, not fallen limbs nor timber

Here the birds tiptoe and sing sotto voce

Kookaburras giggle elsewhere and cockatoos retreat

The wombats skirt the grove, no koala takes refuge

Even bushfires leap this ridge

The trees stand on, keeping vigil for the Old Man

The wood is sacred, a cenotaph

Listen to the keening of the wind in the branches:

Never forget, never forget

x

Sunday Trees

Please indulge my passion for trees.  After the fridge magnet saga I thought perhaps I should reveal a more, um, er, mature? nature-loving? civilised? side of my character.  

So far, I haven't written a poem to accompany my small forest.  I know one that was embroidered on a sampler created by one of my great-aunts ('Trees' by Joyce Kilmer) but I do not feel it quite captures the heart of the wood for me.  One of the best I have read is by Dave King and can be found here (I'm sure Mr King will not mind you reading it).

My favourite tree line is from the playwright sometimes known as Shakespeare.  Sonnet 73 (or in my collection 42):

Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

I have often tried to draw this line but have never satisfied myself.