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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required "The cooler weather changed our work— not the land’s will to live." :by poet When the water begins to cool and we can no longer swim, when the hot winds begin to cool, when each day we no longer fear the bushfire’s hunger, then the time has come to change our ways. Dad hitches up the trailer and we all go out collecting wood. While Dad cuts the big limbs dropped by the eucalypts, my brothers and sisters and I gather smaller branches and twigs— kindling that snaps clean between our hands. When the trailer is full, we gather more than we need: wood set aside for others in town before the cold comes. We bring home only what the trees have already dropped— paperbark in pale, curling sheets, eucalyptus bark in silver ribbons, and fern fronds. Later, when the weather holds us in, Nana spreads the bark across the table and helps us to see in it distant mountains rising from the bark’s silver grain, a small house made of twigs, birds taking flight from fern fronds, clouds and chimney smoke teased from wool. In the vegetable patch, tomatoes give up their last warmth. We plant what can bear the whitening mornings. Banksias opened their rough gold brushes into the cooling air. Rainbow lorikeets shrieked and squabbled over their nectar. Now, as the weather cools, I wear a hand-knitted jumper. The garden keeps growing. Banksia nectar feeds hungry birds.
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