Gone long ago his hoard
Of gum-blossom, nut and bough.
No bee or feasting bird
Cares to visit him now.
Only the bull-dog ants
Scurry about his base,
Or a lone windhover haunts
Some high perching place.
At times the magpies use
Him as a pedestal;
Broadcast their morning news,
Concerts at even-fall.
Or a phantom cuckoo grieves
That spring might soon go by;
Otherwise life just leaves
Him alone with the sky.
Twenty years he has lacked
The leaves that shimmered and laughed --
How many gales have rocked
Since then that silvery shaft?
Yet when the bush is drawn
Into the sky's disputes,
I have seen green kings torn
Up by heir mighty root,
While, last of his tribe, alone
He stands upon the rise
Pointing a useless bone
At the uncaring skies.
First published in The Bulletin, 28 May 1947
