sickles

like sickles they sit, bats in a cave,

curving inwards. they coat the errant branches

in sparse bushels, ready to drop.

their razor edges contradict the gnarled and

buckled burls beneath them. make a mockery

of the timber.

the mighty gum! the patriots exclaim,

rough as guts, tough as nails

true blue, dinky-di!

they’ll last anywhere, live forever and

never need a drop. and what’s more,

they make a hell of a floor and burn like nothing else.

but what do they know of the sickles?

if only they’d look at the leaves -

moustachioed in myrtle, girt in gumnuts.

perhaps that would be enough

to convince them that maybe, just maybe,

they can do without another

jarrah

chopping board.