Adelaide
The old grandmother tree
spreads herself at the Oval gate.
Generations of nests
cradle in her spreading arms.
She rocks and sways,
then dips
to the chimes of bells
and brisk cool gully breezes.
Old Adelaide she is, in place and posture.
Benevolent matriarch, guest of honour.
In silent commentary
she smiles upon her noisy brood.
She’ll indulge their excitements
at parties, fetes and festivals.
But higher praise she still reserves
for the strain into brighter lights.
She knows the prodigals all come home
with fortunes lost and made,
to wrestle with familiar odds
and take refuge in her shade.