The chi of storm wind severs the trunk
of a sixty -metre tall whitegum from its roots.
The tree crashes to the ground,
shaking the house like an earthquake.
The weakness lay in an imbalance on one side
until gravity and speed of the gale
overwhelms the tree’s drive to grow towards heaven.
In the same way, the core of a crisp apple,
cast into the garden without thought
of its latent ability to shelter
the house from the summer sun.
Soon it is full of small green apples
that attract rosellas which prefer the seeds
to the fleshy fruit, thus leaving a banquet
on the ground for thrush and bronze winged pigeon,
clever trickster currawong and blue wren.
This tree carries no curse or tempting snake,
but glorious birds on the bough as old as time,
a universal symbol for Druid, Norse and Greek,
Hindu and ancient Egypt’s Golden Tree.
An odyssey takes hold of Dante’s hand
to venture into caverns and labyrinths
and vistas of imaginings.
The two birds in the Vedas are always united.
Self and soul clinging to the same tree,
One eats the fruit while the other only looks on.
If this happens, fear is its fate,
rather than inseparable unity.