Bush Spirituality

on a cliff

I am buried underneath the mangroves

the only place I could breathe

dirt smiles beneath my fingernails

I hear the feet crunch of leaves

upon cushions of sand

where sunlight trickles through

the gaps between leaves

splash lighting the water

lapping over roots

a kookaburra laughs

hysterically

at my folly

of hurting to love

a place

embraced with a flute like pain

playing on memory’s screen

a ghost of the hanging tree

haunting my heart

with empty  birdsong

his remarkable gnarled elbow

nudging me

to remember every scratchy blade of grass

where monarch butterflies stuck to spider death

in the sun

there’s irony

woven into webs

stretched across a bush church

that saved me

more than once

when it leaned in to touch me

as if to say,

“it’s okay

I’m here”

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