Saturday, September 4, 2010


The gum boughs creak and complain as the wind shoves them rudely
While the grey mass drags itself across the midnight sky,
Scouring away the stars and hemming in all dreams before it.

The sliver of silver peeping in and out of the grey waves of the sky
Imitates a lighthouse beacon,
But has no ships of the sky to warn so leaves to sulk.

The gum stretches its roots into the soil,
Feeling the endless days ahead will outshine the endless days behind
For has it not witnessed History when hatchlings learnt to fly.