At home
Out on the slope, above the alkaline
and sterile sumps of rivers long deceased
they watch, dry-tongued and stark. They bend their limbs
at angles toward the sky, fists full of knives,
a vulnerable heart, a growing urge
within each nest of blades. Defiantly
they hold those hearts aloft, the burning sun
to feed their swelling, misbegotten arms.
Sun rises, sets. The knives reflex, tree-fists
open, the growing urge begets new blades,
a sharp rosetted hand, another hand,
and then another still. Year upon year,
branch after furling branch, a thousand-fold
belimbed and daggered forest stands, dry-tongued.
Comments
Started this one in 1997, let the first eight lines sit for twelve years, then finished.
Wow.
Rivers never die.
The whitest saltpan, the reddest dune
Are just flowerbeds waiting for the rain that always comes.
Eventually.
This year, for the third time since Australian federation, Lake Eyre will be full of water:
http://lablemminglounge.blogspot.com/2009/06/lake-eyre-basin.html
In the driest corner of Australia, we saw brolgas, ducks, bush turkey, emu, waders, and pelicans. They were paddling and swimming in rivers that hadn’t flown in 20 years.
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