1/ AT THE MINISTRY OF BOTHER
At the Ministry of Bother the clerk behind the counter blinks once or twice when I tell him I want to register my defence of the red majestic gum tree at the Garran shops. Ah yes, he says and blinks again. His blinking puts me in mind of a small owl or an owlet but here I must stop myself from going down one of those poetry rabbit holes. The man-owl, I tell myself (firmly), is for another poem. He opens a ledger (dusty, of course) and takes a pen from behind his ear. A feather rather small, but definitely a feather, falls onto the form neatly labelled, ‘In Defence of Said Tree’. This tree is in trouble I say, it’s being threatened by the axe or the chainsaw or a bulldozer. Someone wants it gone. The owl-man puts on a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. Gives me a hard stare. We’re not authorised to give out those details to any member of the public, interested or not. Please enter your details on this form as requested and say why you think the tree should stay without delay. I notice his rhyme here. Not perfect certainly, but not too bad.
I have put it in a poem, I tell him. He stops and stares again. Oh, that is very irregular. There’s no place for poetry on the official form. Maybe one or two lines. A haiku perhaps ? My poem is short but it’s not a haiku. Of course, he mutters under his breath. Poets and trees, they go together like birds and bees. He can’t help himself. Most people can’t. Whenever you mention you’re a poet they immediately begin speaking in rhyme. Shake a tree in this city, the owl-man says, and ten poets will fall out. Trust me, I know and he rubs his index finger up against his little beak-like nose. I’ll tell you what I can do because I’m rather fond of poetry, I will attach your poem as Supplementary Evidence. What is your best line? I tell him. He nods his little owl head. Very well. I will send it to my superiors. They have more time than me to read your poetry
2/ SUPPLEMENTARY EVIDENCE: POEM
HIDDEN BENEATH YOUR CANOPY
skin-to-skin
my palm rests
on your trunk
stripped bare
naked of bark
newly-born
time
soft as a lullaby
stills
quietens
the tick-
tock
babble
of my mind
© Moya Pacey, 2025
