04-22-2021, 08:06 AM
The dying of the bush
One hot summer day, a gusty wind
scorched the lily pilly's leaves,
for want of watering.
Spiders spun their webs
between thin branches.
Snails moved on to the hibiscus.
And at night, cars coming up the hill
shone their lights again.
I had hoped for a red-green canopy
with butterflies in spring, white clouds
on a blue sky. Or maybe I was remembering
a postcard. Next spring
it'll be camellias.
One hot summer day, a gusty wind
scorched the lily pilly's leaves,
for want of watering.
Spiders spun their webs
between thin branches.
Snails moved on to the hibiscus.
And at night, cars coming up the hill
shone their lights again.
I had hoped for a red-green canopy
with butterflies in spring, white clouds
on a blue sky. Or maybe I was remembering
a postcard. Next spring
it'll be camellias.