Apart from those
occasional wrinkled socks
you are aristocratically pallid
with maplike diagonal splotches
of harmonious umber.

On his tough trudge
to the inland something, somewhere,
one well-advised explorer
found that their huddles
drew his panting team to water.

Your timber turns out as hard
as the well-known hobs of hell:
but those branches, old tree-father,
can do gestures from
some elaborate baroque.

In stone country, almost
almost anything pale can develop
patches, freckles and streaks,
even a red-hearted bole,
whether aged or young.

An odd branch may crash down

on the unwary one

but your silent majesty can speak

to the half-dry creekbed

it stands guard over.

CONTENTS: JULY–AUGUST 2011