Night-time wander

Wandering in Kings Park

In the darkening

Soft rain,

Dead trees

Sentinel against

The sheets of

Water falling, sweeping.

Blinking them away

As I stare up, up

Into the ever so

Fine twigs that
Tip this skeleton.

Water flowing down

Trunks, over bark

Clumped and

Blotched unexpected

Orange with clay.

Thorny bushes

Push past my

Legs, contorted

Black stump

Hieroglyphs

Against the sky

A language that is

Not spoken but

Felt in the

Bones, the wind

Washed skin,

The hair flattened

Lank against your

Neck.

This language booms

Into the heart

Soars the

Spirit and leaves

Its distant echo

Murmur

Awash

As it goes

To return when

You next go

Wandering

In the bush.