Camden Poplars

Old soldiers these, their lances guarding land
Purloined from tribe and tilled by convict hand.
Macarthur’s sheep they pierced and prodded back
With solid shafts of shadow golden-black.

Till trade took root upon Nepean’s banks
And profit bloomed beyond the stick of reason.
The aspens drop their arms in sagging ranks –
The river floods regardless of the season –
The river floods and with appropriate thanks
I wake and work some conscientious treason.

Bright spear of peace that seldom suburb has.
The spire of Camden church now guards the trees.
I smile, my irksome day accomplished, as
Their hands bid welcome, waving in the breeze.