Among the blight-killed eucalypts, amongtrees and bushes rusted by Christmas frosts,the yards and hillsides exhausted by five years of drought,certain airy white blossoms punctuallyreappeared, and dense clusters of pale pink, dark pink—a delicate abundance.
They seemedlike guests arriving joyfully on the accustomedfestival day, unaware of the year's events, not perceivingthe sackcloth others were wearing.
To some of us, the dejected landscape consorted wellwith our shame and bitterness.
Skies ever-blue,daily sunshine, disgusted us like smile-buttons.
Yet the blossoms, clinging to thin branchesmore lightly than birds alert for flight,lifted the sunken hearteven against its will. But notas symbols of hope: they were flimsyas our resistance to the crimes committed—again, again—in our name; and yes, they return,year after year, and yes, they briefly shone with serene joyover against the dark glareof evil days.
They are, and their presenceis quietness ineffable—and the bombings are, were,no doubt will be; that quiet, that huge cacophanysimultaneous.
No promise was being accorded, the blossomswere not doves, there was no rainbow.
And when it was claimedthe war had ended, it had not ended.
