Corymbla calophylla



If I had a totem
it would be a tree
red-blooded and raw
shadow-self branching into darkness
roots reaching for the earth’s
molten sun
Two hundred and fifty miles
thrum of tyres becomes wrenching
a form of splintering     
one home for the next
emptied of grief, sitting in new yard
I am watching timber become rain
woody hail tap-tapping
falling from green cloud, cumulus calophylla
honkey-tonk of nuts, their hit and slap scattering
the cats
feasting Carnaby’s are invisible
in their shifting mantle
a singular exchange of notes
a see-saw of rasping throats
dawn’s slow speech
every       breathing       leaf
old medicinal, flowering sentinel
shape of childhood held
in the umbrella of a bloom
I am surrounded by healers, blood
of wood works at my wounds.