I wasn’t the first raised in your shade.
I arrived late, carried by soiled hands
that sought commerce over country.
My arrival was in the wake of profit
for those filthy hands forever clean.
I found myself in roots and leaves,
clambering through your boughs,
falling gumnuts echoing my tears,
giving rhythm to my joy.
We stole from you; dislodged
your brothers and sisters, tore
children from your grasp,
their remains barred from country.
Grief plundered you of leaves,
left you bare to winter winds.
When your leaves cast new shadows
our self-righteous hands planted
manicured laws, foreign children,
and ornamental gardens in your shade.
Yet, you raised me all the same.
In your aged wisdom you sought
neither retribution nor destruction,
claimed neither hate nor vengeance –
you embraced kindness.
Five years ago I stepped into
the burning vigil of the world.
Each time I return to your shade
you nourish me, teach me,
to better face the world
transforming beneath your gaze.
© Alex Eagleton, 2025
