the winter solstice is over
July is colder
it's late afternoon and I sit at the forest margin
wanting to be healed of a sickness
a lancewood points its leaves downwards
a shadow creeps along the bark of a tree
orchid stems are flowerless
to the lancewood that will lift up its branches
to the gecko in a dip of sun
to the lowlands with their hooded orchids
I surrender
over there in the gully -
moss is white with morning dew
as it was on the day you departed