Losing my way along the bush tracks,
I stumble into a junction where banksias
throng like an unruly crowd; and a marri tree,
adorned with green and gold parrots
screeches Australia, Australia.
Soon the bones of Brookfield Place
loom above the tree horizon, ghostly
skin of a lemon scented gum, wrinkled with age,
limbs amputated and healed over;
stands in memoriam to Sapper Gordon WH Milne
who died at Sandakan on Valentine's Day 1945.
Ants are turning the soundtrack inside out;
blood red zamia seeds spill at my feet,
a wren whistles a descending scale,
as paths disappear into multiple distances;
and although I am lost I wonder
why it is that I feel so found?
by Nandi Chinna.