These days I’m increasingly aware
of my age, rusty rings rambling
inside, skin splintered, scarred,
limbs crackling, swaying, trembling
in the wind. On this land I stand,
under a sulky, shadowy white sky
cold and indifferent, urging me to
get on with it, a foolish old thing
trapped by time and stars, ignorant
of all things modern – guns, chains,
science that secures souls and slaves
like me, facing death by a thousand
cuts. Silenced, by this river frontier
I thrive, my roots deep and warm,
my voice quiet, haunting, evergreen.
I, who always was, forever will be
a custodian of time, space, spirit.
Image thanks to Victoria’s Giant Trees.
