White-gutted gum in summer,
proud in Northern Territory light,
you stand forked and sound,
a quiet custodian of sweeping country,
under the whole azure of vivid sky
and the browns and greens of painted earth,
with bark peeled back to chalk and honey,
bruised with rust-red scars,
with leaves whispering slender shade over
grass and dust and sunlit sand,
and in your bent, patient posture
I hear this land’s slow truth:
you are tough-rooted,
a companion and yourself,
a poem planted in the land,
from ancient stock breathed,
resisting the circling wind,
and refusing to be moved.

 

10/2/2026