Land of eucalypts

 

 

 
In secret, slivered slip of leaf
the frame is put in place,
a languishing of eucalypt;
as perfumed, drifting grace.
The myrtle from the southern land
is born in fire and death,
and drapes the days in waiting
until it burns again.
With serpentine releasing,
its skin is shaken free,
revealing flesh fair beautiful
as bark surrounds the tree.
The moon shines on its purity,
caresses milky trunks,
as phoenix-like she rises
on watered, ancient roots.
Like demons born in torment,
they raise igniting arms,
as if to cry for mercy
when nature calls them home.
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About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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