Soft, golden sunlight makes patterns
with tree canopies upon the forest floor.
Young, mid-storey wattle daubs brown and
green chiaroscuro with spry clusters of
yellow. A delicate wind swings her flouncy,
see-through dress about fallen leaves,
kisses them on the mouth, glides away.
The weather, with his cool, sleepy breath,
walks down the path, talking to himself.
Sirens of kookaburras call out a new
beginning. Water-smooth pebbles add tone and
inflection to the creek’s soliloquy.
The sky rises to track retrograding
paths of two blue wren.
This magical land lives in me all the time;
this magical land never lived.