The Trees Grow Green With Envy

It is the end of the golden weather as
the last lazy day sinks sweetly into a
pink sunset blooming up out of the
west, fusillading the canopy of
remnant sclerophyll (which I detest),
piercing these tired eyes with its pastel
softness; it is the end of a much needed
rest, the beginning of another test.
We start the new season tomorrow.

The despised evergreens grow from
ignorance as wide as four generations
of stupidity – the wiser ones milled
the original trees, the stupid ones
let regrowth claim their land. This
stand is but a sanctuary for weeds,
a chance for fires to rage effectively
unchallenged across productive fields,
a haven for bureaucratic reticence in face
of common sense which says, keep it clean.

We fill our bags with avocados in the light
of the new day. We range amongst trees we
planted and maintained all these years with
a rare duty of care. And there, to the west
where the Council owns the land, where the
rampant regrowth of slash came from neglect,
where the windblown weeds gather and the
underfloor shrieks for a match, there the
watchers watch and the hatchers hatch
and the trees grow green with envy.
© 19 April 2007, I.D. Carswell