At this deep pool
Where no light is reflected,
Where small birds come
Clinging to the vine
Amongst fallen logs and silences,
The crush of leaves and the rot of years.
At this dark edge
Where now unassailable trees tower
In a brief clearing,
At this still centre where the wreckage lies
Of river's breach and storm's rage.
Here at the heart.
Where once the workings of long-ago men,
The wild, roaring, toothless ones,
Desperate and dislocated,
Their fierce eyes blazing through dark,
And bodies by day burning through timber,
Cut sunlight in shadow
And nation in nature.
