Cicada Colony, Mount Tamborine

Clamped hard against the textured bark
beneath the swaying canopy, they temper
the blurred edges of a song of sighing,
fleshy leaves; their brilliance of tone
resounds and ricochets, intones and rounds
tree-sibilance to brilliance of phrase.

In this cicada-heaven on the mountain we
are trespassers; green cobra-hoods of lilies
make us start, and buttress-roots baulk paths.
First syllables of pod and spore and seed
are crushed by careless feet, with arrow-
heads of fern and rust-brown fungi.

We crane at phraseologies of fronds
that cartwheel into sky, slim-columned
palms, and huge green hands of giant
stinging-trees; untitled fruits adorn
our trail with violet, inky blues and coral;
looping into shallow pools of sun, lithe
as a snaking vine, the interrogative of head
and neck, a warning sign...

The words for awe and fear were not
invented here: this universe
was set in train millennia before our time.
We stumble under language-trees attuned
to darker lores and rites, conditioned
by smooth surfaces and glassy light.