by Maria Bonar

Hot westerly, dry windswept garden.
My red and white striped pool towel
snaps and blows on the washing line.
From the corner of my eye I see something
furry with a tail, scurry over the wall.

I pruned the frangipani tree at the end
of last autumn. A small branch rolled
under the bench. A few weeks ago
it started sprouting glossy green leaves
at right angles to the prostrate stem.

My tomato plants had finished fruiting.
I potted the frangipani cutting in their tub.
It’s the greenest thing in my garden.
Geraniums survive neglect, although now
dry, woody-stemmed, with withered leaves.

Golden canes yellowing after the heatwave.
A drooping branch of the palm tree
bangs against the front gutters.
Big Mac rubbish from the takeaway strip
on the main road spirals down my driveway.

The canopy of suburban trees is thinning
many lost to heat and lowering water table.
Deaths noticeable, shocking.
Persistent sirens nearby. Another bushfire?
Can’t smell any smoke yet.

• Ballajura, WA
  Traditional land of the Whadjuk
  people of the Nyoongar Nation.