The Jarrah Tree

The soft green that bled sap

and the bark that hoisted gold

Oh, the largest jarrah tree, breath of old.

It would smell like honey

as the bees buzzed,

birds rocking on its branches; butterflies kissing its leaves,

the flowers blossoming like tinsels and foil.

This was my jarrah tree,

hoarding history in its snout.

Our oldest jarrah tree

that dies on today,

the life fizzing out with the colours gone astray.

The bark no longer brown, pale, as if no sun,

the hair it wears like broken wigs – sticks fallen to the ground.

Chatter that nicks away its stem and roots its feet apart from its body,

bleeding orange sand,

spilling secrets far older than the captors of the land.

This was once my jarrah tree,

but after today,

it will have been taken from me.