Brixton Street Wetlands

The lopped heads of Tuarts bare red-ringed eyes
towards the heavens. Growing loops cut back,
the cockatoos scream overhead. Theirs is a horror
for the homeless. Head of family bent under tyre
tread that troops through swamp. The acrid smoke
over fermented leaves and the relief
of peppermint gums. Heads of state pray
jobs, jobs, jobs
the same old song, the same old state
of play. What we need most. Crystal Brook
closed for business. Priority species slip
beneath another portfolio, all on desks
and office suites far from the killing field.
Dead Tuarts stretch for the sun. Appropriate controls
look so much better on paper.