September morning. White is salient.
The unfocussed wet hover of dawn
has cleared the treetops. In high bush
the ski season packs up, tent by tent,
and the Cherokee rose, its new seams
hitched up rather than pruned
overlaps its live willow easel,
a daylight cloth pelted in white creams.
Minute blossoms of fruit
emerge from lichen’s brown wheeze
that has gathered in their trees.
Burnt-off paddocks have gone out
and the sky is bluer for it.
Beyond the sea coast, rebirthed
4-wheel drives tilt, below,
on the tail ends of big seas.