vale burra park trees

stroke the attic of the valley soul
you old wizened things
bitten by many frosts, you
measured the echo of a bat and ball's 'clock'
(that friendly chime)

the old-timers and their dray
flattened the soil at your feet
scraped the hard clay away
raised the three pillared shrine
(and had a good-o time)

your bark like barnacles on a bomber
sunk into the coral bed
the fuselage torn and twisted
by a century's hands and now today
(the waxy smell of fresh sawn pine)