The tree at my front gate
I'd given up for dead,
gnarled joints and sere,
some straggle leaves below,
a last hurrah I thought,
and that was fifteen years,
or more,
ago.
Flocks of cockatoos sometimes come,
and settle on
its outstretched arms.
Their clamour mocks with raucous life
its long dead limbs,
while down below,
the straggle leaves gain strength and grow.
Its yearning limbs, on one wild night,
closed round a hunter's moon,
clasped its bulbous bloat,
in heartless mockery of life
but, rooted firm, could not take flight
like seas receding - tide untied -
for still its pendules stayed alive.
At dusk a whispered silhouette
posed against the charcoal sky,
a silent swoop, a sudden cry,
yet still the straggle leaves possessed
their pulsing thread of sap,
undaunted by the death throes of
such heart-torn prey.
I almost euthanised that tree.
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