suaveolens (a poem)
When January's hot and the grass is dry, crackling
beneath your feet,
And the swamps are burnt, cracked black and the
season looks quite beat,
Look to the swamp box, cousin to the brush box growing
on the swampy pug.
On the north coast plain ... don't disdain, 'cause
you won't be a silly mug.
This tree will weep a nectar sweet from flowers
small and white ...
Growing from the grey black branches, that have
withstood the season's blight.
The bees will come, the flies will come, refreshment
From this well of fruity nectar, flowing from the
dry swamp plain.