No one can remember
when Harry disappeared,
all of him,
gnarled as a pruning scar growing over
by the wood pile.
A grey thrush was singing
pirated tunes, a wren bobbed like a cork,
a blue flash of magician’s footlight powder
hiding the splitter ceasing.
The last sounds drifting
in the cold porridge of passersby,
some of whom
recalled a morning in developer’s fluid
how sheathes of bark fell on the fence,
an image in reveal then shadows whistling
sheathes of bark fell on the fence,
cowled déjà vu in the garnish pleat
between daylight saving
and Greenwich mean time touching from behind.
Big beech Balook, courtesy friends of Tarra Bulga National Park