Lace and parasols

I opened my neglected diary this weekend and discovered a forgotten morning. 

This tree has grown at least a hand span

 down over the top of this burn scar.

We walked along the trail and saw scarred trees healing from the top down and burnt stumps growing from the bottom up.  

We saw the scrabble marks of possums on marri trunks from many a night's journey to feast on nectar. 

I imagined the pink possum tongues cleaning sticky paws and sticky whiskers. 

Fire loving plants were missing from the long unburnt bush, their seeds waiting patiently for a spark.

As always I was fascinated by lacy patterns made by trees.

 This was an old, gnarled and stumpy branched marri. 

Bees flew in and out of it's trunk, humming in its heart.

The green filigree above was mirrored by the grey lichen doilies growing on the bark below. 

Underfoot the damp earth smelt sweet, strewn with creamy stamens from the fading blossoms.

Intense red parasols unfurled between summers drift.

Overhead, shadow like crows drawled an intermittent duet while 

 frogs plucked strings in a noisy chorus from a depression beside the stream.