Poetry

Driving Through Wattle

Driving Through Wattle   First it grips the base of a hill far away, then its bright yellow wanders amongst the forest trees like holy breath, drawing close until, tall as eucalypts, it crowds them aside with shouts of gold and a sudden crash of scent. It’s as if we breached a portal to belong in another life and, afterwards alone, still dazed and vacant because a grace went out of us, have this belief: offer up in wonderment all the joy of being mortal.   Leon Trainor

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