Native Cut Wood Deflects Colonial Hunger Poem by John Kinsella

Why "raspberry jam tree?" Acacia acuminata. Mungart.
The guilt of cut wood? Its smell, its bloody show?
And that colorist's jam envy, the lust for ropes
of raspberry. Fence-posts sturdy and hardy
and doused in creosote: to stand alone
in Termitesville. The sweetness turns rust.
And burnt offerings unless dried right through —
say for a year on the pile. Hot as hell to fire.
Nothing comes cost-free, we hear — those layers
of its dozen years a demonstration in history
as accumulation. Collective survey of occupation:
the real corps de ballet, the shrubby scenery,
bulldozed on roadsides. Ring a Ring o' Roses.
All those brandings. Emblem of our town
that would miss no more than our rates.
"High turnover" region. Think raspberry
jam on white damper, think coals of fires.
The meager shade for sheep and cattle
and the denial of "unproductive" animals.
Nuisances. Saw deep into rough bark,
showered in pollen. Unholy fires
at the end of winter; and all that premonition,
all those seeds with snow in their bellies,
snow that can't fall from this faraway sky.
So overwhelmingly familiar to me.
No Old Country raspberry homesickness.
Just an inkling of anthocyanin pigments.
Why "raspberry jam tree?" Acacia acuminata. Mungart.