Madre

She stands there,
Leaning over,
In silent pain,
Her trunk buttressed and cracked with age,
Her roots planted firmly in the ground, 

Her trunk full of memories,
Of bushfires,
Raging through her home,
Of the days when she stood straight,
Her leaves reaching for the sky,
Of the days when she had been free of the slow torture of white ant.

Now she stands leaning,
Further every day,
Fearing that she may fall,
But,
She keeps her feet planted firmly,
Holding on until the day she crashes to the ground.