Frangipani (Lyn Reeves)
bush on either side, orange gum blossom torn
by last night’s wind, its bright threads scattered.
Wallaby tracks indent the road’s soft edges.
There’s one now, perfectly still.
Then it thumps through the scrub with a sound
like the thud of an axe on wood.
In an untended garden a tall frangipani tree
is spilling white flowers onto the verge.
She fills her skirt with their satin mandalas,
carries them back to the stone hut where heat
presses through the iron roof and wire-net windows.
A blue glass jar on the sill waits in deep-sea gloom
for the gift of a feather found on the path.
She floats the creamy petals in a shallow bowl –
wax candles, fragrant as incense, releasing light
from their gold-centred hearts. Open, unguarded,
quick to bruise. Outside the rain begins again.