He has come to cut my silver oaks,
the Highway has to run through
a part of my garden.
He will hack the silvery greyness
sever the roots
scar the land owned by our family,
the tract where my grandfather stood
as surveyor showed the site
will soon be the NH4.
The road will get closer to my lawn
the exhaust from the cars on my face
as I lie in my hammock ;
when the motorist swerve their cars
I will hear them swear over my tea
under the frangipani ; as I
have sex with my lover under the moon
a casual driver will hum a tune
drawing in his cigarette.
I see the man
prodding a scab at the elbow
waiting for me to lead him
through the carefully tended garden
as pollen dusts his skin
fragrance of tuber roses
thick on his coarse cloth;
a dull smell of urine
marks the animal his territory.