Casurina Poem by keith brown

The she oaks
Stand
Tall and bleak
Along
Bedraggled foreshores
And
Neglected creek
Silent Now
No need to bend
To the whims of
South
Prevailing wind

As night Invades
Her gentle sigh
From
Boughs like knotted fingers
Cry
Against
The gathering of the storm
Branches writhe
And
Shadows form

Her needles
Cast
Upon the ground
Weave a carpet dense and brown
Along the banks
Down to the sea
Like children of the last
Banshee

Yet still she
Bends
Beneath the gale
As
Mangroves shake and
Branches flail at
Clouds
That scud across
The sky
The she oak
With
Her head held high
Holds fast
Along her line
Defends
All
From natures
Prevailing
Wind