Touchstone

We are moving again. Not back west

but around the corner

to the top floor of an apartment block.

When the day comes, we will walk there

past each touchstone we have come to know.

The bottlebrush,

its many tails signalling in crimson,

the spokes of a spiderweb

rolling low between its branches.

The sweet decay of damp leaf pack at its feet.

The paperbark,

its loose ribbons smuggling

mineral-black seams of ants.

Small galaxies hiding in

the white knuckles of its weathered roots.

The pincushion hakea,

its blush centres bursting under birdsong,

tender cases thrown to the ground.

The fine needlepoint of each flower

stitching a slow path towards a shifting sun.