High above in the tall canopy the Eucalypts are flowering. I can see the creamy white blooms when I am looking down from the train or standing on a cliff edge. But walking in the forest I am hardly aware of the flowers except for those snipped off and littering the ground below.
From Flowering Eucalypt in Autumn by Les Murray Australia’s leading contempary poet.
"minute urns, pinch-sized rockets
knocked down by winds, by night-creaking
fig-squirting bats, or the daily
parrot gang with green pocketknife wings.
Bristling food tough delicate
raucous life, each flower comes
as a spray in its own turned vase,
a taut starbust, honeyed model
of the tree's fragrance crisping in your head."