The Ghost Of Sir Brentwood

So distant and almost free, 

Spotted sparingly in your South Australian trees. 

Delicately, softly, can you still hear me? 

My single-handed hirsute ghost, 

Awakening in winter as frost paints branches the most. 

Reaching up, clawing out, whispering along the trunk-lined coast. 

One bouquet, a gift I accept. 

The love-invoking red tips of your petals defy all odds, except; 

Climate change, weed invasion, illegal kidnapping, I expect. 

Your troubled heart, with red-tinged lips of blood. 

A ghostly gift emerging from wounded mud. 

I catch a glimpse of you, shelter you, one last spring bud. 

Your fragile wings are stiffly spread, 

Your spidery legs will soon lie dead. 

Don’t leave me, don’t let go, your absence is our nation's dread. 

Vegetation clearance, pestilence, crystal-clear are your threats. 

Tossing and trampling are our deepest regrets. 

Remain brave, resist the grave, your demise is something everyone frets.