The Blackwood Tree
By: Victor Sarkin
Tags: Nature, Poetry, Australia, Environment, Outdoors

Shimmering grain, golden copper strands

with fibres of chocolate, both milk and dark.

A stunning timber, with which to create form,

a fine jewellery box for my wife, my beloved.

A casket for her treasures, a token of my gratitude

for all that she does selflessly, a memento

of me to remember the good times

for when the day comes, that I’m not there.

Australian Blackwood, Acacia melanoxylon.

Sharing kinship with our prized pycnantha wattle.

Speckled with matte gold pom-poms of its own.

A subdued, understated flower, by comparison,

allowing its brighter, bolder cousin to be

centre stage as our nation’s prime bloom,

showcasing its earthy green and vibrant gold.

An elegant tree, from a proud heritage.

Timbers, now held in unworthy hands.

Attempting to do some good, so that I may

become worthy and give its death meaning.

Allowing its spirit to become one with nature,

knowing it had fulfilled its purpose.

Neither living nor dying in vain.

Never asking for much, this Blackwood tree.

Wanting only a space to live in the East

of a country with much space to spare.

Needing water, which it waited for, patiently,

in a hot, dry land, expecting none to provide.

Requiring the sun, of whose generous abundance

it fed, alike all its kin, and life everywhere.

The Blackwood tree, silently providing our air,

so we could breathe remaining ignorant of it.

Taking leavings, without complaint, and thriving.

In the harshness, under Australian skies,

providing shade beneath its mighty canopy.

Sheltering the many insects that

burrow within its bark for refuge.

Until, despite its living beauty in truth,

its body, brought down by the children she fed.

Felled with a crash, and shower of golden teardrops.

Falling and filling the air with a cloud of sadness.

Lamenting the loss of a giving and selfless soul

such as this one, the Blackwood tree.

No more. No more shelter anymore. No more.

No more air to provide, nor blooms or leaves.

The Blackwood tree, on its side, it now lay amidst

broken branches and bark. Beetles, beyond believing

this act of intrusion that only we could perpetrate.

Hurriedly, its limbs removed with cold steel.

Bark, stripped without care for its nakedness,

by people filling a day with work to get paid.

Its backbone clutched callously in metal claws

and laid side by side with its brothers on a flatbed.

Its hearse, its carriage for its final journey,

without the dignity of wreaths or grief.

For none requires closure for the loss of a tree.

At the mill, the last of the Blackwood is lost.

All identity as a tree is gone. Forever.

A tree becomes lumber. A being becomes wood.

A home to be furnished with chocolate and gold.

For even in death, the Blackwood’s beauty remains.

Alone in the workshop and pondering upon

this life of the beautiful Blackwood tree.

Disappointment that we fail to see

beauty exists without our intervention.

We see only beauty if it’s beautiful to us.

So, I choose to gift to this life that was lost;

this Black Wattle, this Blackwood tree,

whose life embodied what it is to give,

and from whose timbers, a gift I will make.

It will have a second life of giving.

An ornament of chocolate and gold.

A lifetime of function and memories,

to be treasured again in the years to come.

Tell me, will you see this Blackwood tree?