The night proceeds when I call for it.
The banksia corrugates its limbs
at the grasp of my claws.
The moon comes and bows
in the mirror of my eye.
The forest stands to attention
and mice scuttle in dry litter
to feed my young.
Sometimes when I multiply myself
into the night’s sound,
humans like pink ghosts
look from their house window.
Potted in brick, behind glass
they are safe from my wizardry.
They know that wherever my glance falls
the valley burns.
They bought the block to save my tree;
so I can sit here
night after night, cutting the darkness in slices.
Ghosts flee from my stare.
Angels assemble under my wings.
No house will rise
where this banksia stands
except my own.