
Wise old eucalypt
doesn’t cry over dead branches—
it only flowers.

Wise old eucalypt
doesn’t cry over dead branches—
it only flowers.

Branchless and bare-bones;
the once-magnificent tree:
an ecosystem.

Autumn comes to town
flaunting her shiny red skirts;
toad stools seek a kiss.

Alone and forlorn
lays on a bare ocean cliff—
red flower, for love.

I greet the neighbours,
gently walking through the woods—
the wild hellos back.