Book of Eucalypt

Beneath the Surface
(C) Book of Eucalypt

A branch lies broken as it creeps out like fingers
that doubles its reach in still water,
the silent architecture
that belongs to no hand,
only to the mirror of sky.

Scarlet petals lining bordering
realms press forward,
its light like a small fire
among the weight of leaves,
but even their glow leans inward,
folding into shadows
where colour waits unseen.

The river does not move as
it holds its own breath.
What drifts across it
does not belong to one world alone.

Edges blur.
The fallen tree, drowning, jealous of
the standing one, tall on riverbank, and
the eye and what it carries away.
Even light is unsure
which way it is meant to travel.

And so, each step here
is less arrival, more question,
as if the land beneath our feet
were only the beginning
of something uncharted,
pulling us quietly
toward its hidden face.