~ Written on Noongar Lands
A frail spindly thing,
new planted, barely upright,
bark flaking in fluttering tatters,
bole, barely a hand span.
Yowarl, the Noongar people call her.
These days Yowarl’s roots drink deep,
girth un-embraceable, branches curling over
like curving fingers weighted down
by an excess of creamy bee-filled blossom.
For over forty years has
Yowarl flourished in my backyard.
I leave her be, as she creates a haven
for scuttling lizards and a multitude of birds.
Her sun-tipped leaves drift earthward
while great swathes of bark
tinted like pink ivory, pare away from the trunk.
Her heavy boughs a haven
where magpies celebrate,
singing their fluting morning song.