Little Song for the Macrocarpa
Sentries on the dark Shakespearean stage, like some marionette
troupe, power-line puppets; as a sleep-walker
you lumber in the paddock, unaware you ought to
summon your collective strength, snap the strings of night,
stretch out your limbs, and leg it, before they have your neck.
Think on fallen comrades who have fought here,
ignore the slow sheep, silly for the taste of slaughter,
depart the winter field without regret.
Behold the night torch! Look to where Rona shines her lamp -
beyond this bruise of wheels, beyond this heavy ploughed tome,
yes, let the possum hiss, the magpie flap,
startle the arrogant traffic, and neat as a hawk’s talon, stow
away your roots, then at the land’s fringe, set up camp
in sight of the rolling swell, in step with the wind strum.
Greg O’Connell © 2010