Amputated brachia of stumps
reveal the growth rings of a eucalypt,
dense concentric annules
tending out towards the sun,
centring on spinal
nerves and ganglions.
Branching at ground level
in five fingers like a hand,
this might have been a bloodwood
or an ironbark or coolabah,
its inner life uncovered
by the saw that brought it down.
Gazing at the patterns now laid bare
I think of nebulae,
slowly-moving spirals
that contracted into tree,
or else a cyclone frozen in its course,
the storm's myopic eye
morphing into heartwood
which tough fibres guarded carefully,
darker and more tender at the core.
In the mutilation of an organism
that purified the air I breathe,
gave shade beneath its canopy,
the inner life is brought to light
as forms and lines in harmony,
like rhythms orbiting the Earth,
engendering the universe.
i.m. Arthur Spurway