The Burning Tree

Many summers ago my hair flared
brittle, ready to be afire.

Grass singed in the heat of the morning,
snail of sweat below the thigh.

Snipes of gold the eucalyptus leaves drifted
searing an amber hole in retina.

One never goes blind because of light,
I did when he pressed me to the glass.

I saw the sun burst into a howl of colours
on the trees stretching miles along the sea,

branchless hence empty without birds, no song
to offer the tide that strayed as far as my nest.


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