Below eucalypts,
butcherbird plucks out a hymn.
Bush cemetery.
The wattle lingered
late, that August year you left.
Winter’s long goodnight.
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The Last of the Wattle
Below eucalypts,
butcherbird plucks out a hymn.
Bush cemetery.
The wattle lingered
late, that August year you left.
Winter’s long goodnight.
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