Weed-surrounded round trunk fortifies into urine-trickled
rain-watered black soil now fifteen years, its bark a tribulation of Viennese
cross-hatching, scarred and come summer ant-trailled. Seven or so branches
river-bow above, grey fabric dark around polls and branch snaps, pruned into
places no human goes but bees reach in changeable September sunshine. Shoots of
green tip the long whips, their brown flex almost burgundy, determined to repeat
the quiet outreach of unspoken millennia, tail-waving in minimal breeze. White
five-petalled blossoms trick out in twos and threes, at intervals, their golden
starburst pollen parading in the air for fruit and night possums.
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