~ 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.