Christmas Day

I open my presents, the classic ‘Forests of Ash’, ‘Big
Pacific’, ‘Bowerbirds’, a selection box, chocolate orange

from a pillowcase bottom of the bed to remind me
I am still a child somewhere inside my reflection.

A red sky in the morning a non-shepherd’s delight,
noisy young Kookaburras are learning their song

as painful as hearing children play the trombone.
Later the screeching shouts again. They are fighting

over a tasty morsel, neither will let go.
The parent has more food and tries to intervene

A few metres to their right, one of my favourite trees
is soon to be pulverised to wood chips. The relics

will be offered to local gardens, but I just want the tree
to stay standing tall, to support passing birds in orbit.

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