Observations From a Messmate Stump

Here I sit on the stump, of a dead messmate gum, where house-keeping is poor, for the cleansed human mind; the dead is not buried, so the living survive. I see the fine balance, in a world that’s unkind. There is always the devil, that lurks out of sight, to balance the scales, and to keep the world strong. There is no place for the weak, and so they succumb, as the feast in the forest, where they did belong. From this stump I can see, the growth of brand new life; with saplings that are thriving, upward to the sun, hosting throngs of parasites, striving hard to breed, but there’s predators waiting, to bring their hope undone. This fine messmate gum that once lived and has since died, ruled for generations with a need to provide; today it’s timber survives, although mummified, and it’s saplings are growing, scattered far and wide. There’s a stringybark close by, avoiding the axe; a fallen black wattle, blighted by bardi grub. Lightning split manna gum, now petrified wood, and old wombat tracks, are covered up by scrub. The bush has all the power, to regenerate. This stump of the messmate, will nearly be concealed, and slowly be forgotten, in the midst of time; its days in the forest - no longer be revealed. How will my soul dwell, in this natural garden? Will it flit like a butterfly; glide like a snake; or soar like an eagle, beyond the gum tree tops, or drift down the rivers, and then float on a lake. This fine messmate gum that once lived and has since died, ruled for generations with a need to provide; today it’s timber survives, although mummified, and it’s saplings are growing, scattered far and wide.