It has been a very good season.

Lush grass bears witness, 
                                           prostrates
thankful for rich seed yield.
There is none worthy of worship -
it remonstrates - but Sun

and gentle Rain
is his benediction.

The water tree -
celery-green - still -
divines ground fluidity.
Were water scarce,
palatial tree would transmute -
celery flush with distress,
then blush-tinge with sickly green.
Later yet,
streaked with palest clay
it would indicate encroaching drought.
Final stage - calcified chalk.

For white
is the driest colour.

All across Gippsland
eucalypts draw on reservoir water,
moisture rivuleted, clay-trapped
beneath
grey-sandy-loam soil.

Trees straw up the gurgling droplets
as child sucks up milkshake.

When the drying comes,
they will split self and shed
unwarranted chrysalis bark,
spear-splinter brown shards to earth.
Leaves too shall be sacrificed,
viridescent scimitars
for the Lord of Life in this Land
demands
a reckoning,

a fiery end to spring,

a Wicker Man winnowing.