The Diels' Wattle

The tree dances in the breeze 

As the golden yellow sun

Slowly rises on her front porch,

Glistening on her cold face.

She stretches her ridged brown legs

As she prepares for her birds to awaken.

She softly shakes her head,

Drying her dew damped leaves.

Her daisy yellow tufts of pollen

Are visited by bees

Which are sharing the yellow goodness

To the surrounding native fauna.

As her birds take flight, she waves them farewell.

She hears cries out in the distance

Of her brothers, sisters, mothers and fathers,

The Diels' Wattle. 

Their yellow wisps of pollen slowly fading away.

If only she could help them.

She says goodbye, as they begin to die,

In the cold, dark, star-lit night.