Where the Yellow Box Grow
Fresh blows the autumn breeze
As I wander through these ancient trees.
Green leaves of new life wave to the sky
Living monuments to decades gone by.
Like tortured skeletons some reach up in pain
Withered, brown, waiting, longing for rain.
Scattered leaf litter, dry knee-high grass
Hides the ground and obscures my path.
This Timber is part of my soul,
It calls to me, its home, it makes me whole.
A living monument to conservation and care.
An ancient island in a sea of farm fallow, brown and bare.
Galah, Possum, nests of ants, and buzzing bee hives
Fresh growth, and old dead hollows where nature thrives.
Scattered old white Draught Horse bones only my father knows.
My spirit wanders freely where the Yellow Box grows.
Craig, September 2022
Ó Copyright Craig Buller 2022. All rights reserved