by Veronica Troup

Of bush, of branch, of littered leaf
the telling tree was cut
open like the letter
speaking of her leaving

Raised on sunlight made of iron
pink bark solstice fed
myrtle winters dipped in rime
scented rain and clod

Her rings exposed, intimate
lovers carved their names in skin
sustenance and rivulet
in bits across the lot

Of salt-white sails, of genocide
land torn and torn again
her sentient roots stories told
witness, fixed in loam

She could read moon strung skies
tell how far the storm
her synapse hacked by steel instars
a dustbowl sprung alive

Then greenwashed council promises
of one suburban block
her lifetime breathing histories
erased – for an ornamental pear