So when a man's numbers are shaken out
of a lotto machine, he buys a handful of lush
and undulating acres of Tasmanian park
in the north-west; and then, as if to make his mark,
he takes to the bark of the Noachian tree
at the end of his paddock with a can of kerosene.
Do you remember that tree, the one he burned?
Although broken at the crown from having caught
a thunderbolt for sport, it's hulking neck
remained as thick as a tree is at its base
when it hits a hundred feet, and still
it sprouted whole trees from its hoary face.
Did he think it was Ozymandias, with a sneering brow?
I wonder, did a kookaburra, from a kingly height
drive him mad with its burlesque laughter,
while far below he enslaved himself to his cow?
Did he think the birds had built a Tower of Babel?
Or was it just a simple act of spite?
Stuff it all! What do intentions matter
when stacked beside that hallowed and hollowed frame.
You know, it smouldered away like Troy for a week,
then held to the reef of the sky, a faraway wreck
that took a shake of years to finally shatter,
and many more to hand Van Diemen his claim.
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