This Eucaliptus Tree

THIS EUCALYPTUS TREE

I sit below this huge protective tree,
On its mound of bark piled on bark
Torn by nature's cruel fingers,
Grotesquely twirled, ragged strips lifted,
from the trunk by Spring's surging juices and
Falling, dry, dead as my broken expectations.
Gray-green leaves, long pointed straps, twist to offer me
Their pleasing shade.
At the grave, my new friends draw its outline.

Wrestling, in my thoughts and memories,
Throwing down whatever constitutes a threat
To my mental balance or recovery,
Holding to their last black breath the enemies
Of my health and future,
I look up and round,
Even as I throttle the past's wrecking images,
to welcome green signs of fresh vitality.
Australia is here within this eucalyptus tree,
Standing above a bronze-age grave
and the stony remnants of past occupation,
above the River Tagus.

Shadows of Joanna mix on these pages along
With those, cast by the long leaves.
This great tree alone, is in my mind a memory
Of one at Lismore, New South Wales,
Which in Summer, smelt sweet with oily pungent perfume
Drifting past over our short, shared life.

? Carl WV Hopkins
7.7.00
Rio de Moinhus, Portugal
The tree stood alone. It was large and the surrounding area was rough
scrub. I wrote the poem sitting on the bark layer beside its trunk. The
thoughts arose spontaneously in response to what had come before. The
association with Australia was obvious and I chose a powerful memory
of
Summer smells as the link.