by Lise Day
Transplanted to the Spinney
I will have to become a tree.
First I favour the Willow
slender, bending in the breeze
but it’s too late for slender,
perhaps wise to be less pliable
to withstand the thorny thicket.
A Silver Birch attracts, poetic,
trunk white as age-streaked hair
leaves that flutter in late light.
I hope not to be a Crab-apple
mouth all puckered and bitter.
There’s the Weeping Bride’s Bush
but all that’s behind me now.
I love the Jacaranda tree
fronds bent with purple blooms,
constantly reminding students
that it is time to study now,
fitting for a retired teacher,
but due to be rooted out,
not indigenous enough.
I am more indigenous than exotic
so reject the unsmiling Wattles,
with turkey chins all drooping.
I will try not to be a Cross-berry
when nearby brambles prickle.
Cannot be a Common Cabbage tree
or unpleasant Hook Thorn
scratchy, catching on trivial things.
I think I’ll settle for the River Indigo
pink flowers, soft green leaves
even in times of drought,
adaptable, easily transplanted.