Oh, I see, it is the time of year for lace faced fungus, woodlice and
red-bellied ants, snails that deckle our mail, and trimming the curry tree.
In the shallow pond across the road a white-faced heron looks for frogs and
freshwater snails, grateful for anything in this muddy water. We walk by,
dogs sniffing the news, looking where new growth grows green and fresh from
the late summer bushfire. It looks so fresh against the charred black of the
trunks. In the dried edges of the pond, before its low banks, the council
tried a re-vegetation program at the end of summer, but the heat hung on,
and now we see the few survivors dusted off by late autumn rain. I
straighten bamboo sticks placed to prop up the plants. Last year and the
year before that we did the same – small areas of fledgling trees and bushes
support each other as their root systems tap into the subterranean water
sources or spread out laterally to catch what moisture there is just below
the surface. Perseverance is the name of the game, returning to the earth
what is the earth’s. (To be continued.)
--
Andrew
http://hispirits.blogspot.com/
'Mother Waits for Father Late' republished available at
http://www.picaropress.com/
http://www.qlrs.com/poem.asp?id=766
http://frankshome.org/AndrewBurke.html
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