Nine years the Poplar rooted above a creakbed stand,
enjoying dark rich soil, in rock sparse land,
amongst Mountain Ash and rosehip shrubbery,
reaching for the sky, a dream of destiny.

Springtimes came, winter went,
time passed, season's spent,
tree rings grew in number,
each passing summer,
bark peeling in season,
showing growth spurts as reason.

Through moving
Water
The creek bed
Is an abstract painting
Blues and reds
And whites

You can see
A face
Hidden
Behind a veil
Or a landscape,
Some out-of-focus
Heaven

If you reach in
And grab
A stone,
However,
Grasp it
In your hands

The water
No longer obscures

It is solid and smooth
And beautiful
As can be

A masterpiece
Of time
And care

A fully formed
Work
Of art

A Mona Lisa

While folding the pages
of the life's book
page after page
in search of happiness
between the lines,
a period or a comma
might hinder the journey,
don't stop though,
the book's still open
your epitaph isn't written yet.

Snake trees inscribed
with lichen tales
trails that lead
to rosewood polished pools

The tangle-foot Fagus
falls from green to gold to red
here, are all the seasons
and rivers fed from way above

Currawong* scrapes his metallic song
along the rusted belt of sky
and through moss and scrub,
light on foot we fly

Bleached white trunks abound
an ancient rare trod ground
and the eyes of wombat holes
stare out the blinking earth

Full of nature, so alive,
that was campsite #25,
bear, squirrels, and deer,
water music, twenty feet near.
Pine sentries on upper banks,
different heights, different ranks.
Guarding hidden fissured hallways,
shale plates of ochre, sienna, greys,
exposing the genesis stratum,
of this hidden kingdom.
This road mapped precipice,
sure to entice,
all who venture,
to this wonderment of nature.

He was a bird man,
wearing airborne freedom,
flying open skies,
hearing spirit cries.

Father told him,
listen to the wind.
Pay attention
to the season,

four different kinds.
Look for signs
don't listen to the "raven"
for he mimics "man".

Listen to the wind,
let it take you in,
take flight "White Eagleman",
soar like you can.

Over the landscape of being,
canyons never seen,
over frustration mountains,
and good day fountains.

“In the Weindorfer Forest”

Tides of wind are regally swinging
King Billy pines, and nuzzling all
the indescribable things below

only the lens of eye to capture real beauty
only the thin drum to hear
the tick of accumulated mist
on to the clock of forest floor
then bitten on the ear

only the nose to breathe in the
slow seeped sap
and only to the mind to run
to where all this wonder might
be tapped

Or, what strangeness of place
this green haven might trap.

A predilection,
oft pursued,
for high velocities
on wheels, waves or wings
causes grievous injuries
and premature endings.

Bright loud explosions,
and rampant destruction,
see men drawn like flies
to a demolition ball in action,
renting Die Hard lies
and Arnie's excesses
may break cultural ties
and cause racial distresses.

Whatever else it was
those two towers going down
awesome and appalling,
held our eyes and brains
cognitive dissonance strained.

Shopping for produce at the local store,
potatoes, tomatoes and onions galore.
And in my haste, I bent at my waist,
as my cellphone fell from my shirt, into the mushrooms and the dirt,
It rang "Bad to the Bone", my cellphone tone.
I answered and the world stood still,
a presence leering, a yearning to fill.
A greeting of love, it came from above,
a voice "Matthew, God calling". I felt like falling
I caught myself on the rhutaga bin, thinking "oh, no did I sin?"

The void of solitude deepens
showing no mercy for a heart hollowed over time
plunging into a blinding darkness
home to the demons breaking silence
whispering omens about beginning of an end
a heart once an abode
to endless dreams and love
now shattered of all hope and spirits
prays "Lord hold me in your arms"
......................................