Life is just a ....

Among the blight-killed eucalypts, among

trees and bushes rusted by Christmas frosts,

the yards and hillsides exhausted by five years of drought,

certain airy white blossoms punctually

reappeared, and dense clusters of pale pink, dark pink--

a delicate abundance. They seemed

like guests arriving joyfully on the accustomed

festival day, unaware of the year's events, not perceiving

the sackcloth others were wearing.

To some of us, the dejected landscape consorted well

with our shame and bitterness. Skies ever-blue,

daily sunshine, disgusted us like smile-buttons.

Yet the blossoms, clinging to thin branches

more lightly than birds alert for flight,

lifted the sunken heart

even against its will.

But not

as symbols of hope: they were flimsy

as our resistance to the crimes committed

--again, again--in our name; and yes, they return,

year after year, and yes, they briefly shone with serene joy

over against the dark glare

of evil days. They are, and their presence

is quietness ineffable--and the bombings are, were,

no doubt will be; that quiet, that huge cacophany

simultaneous. No promise was being accorded, the blossoms

were not doves, there was no rainbow. And when it was claimed

the war had ended, it had not ended.