Trees are falling 
all over the neighbourhood
after the August storm. 
First my flowering plum
came crashing down 
in full bloom and now
in the reserve 
a towering blue gum
fifty metres tall,
roots exposed, tips green.

All of this a precursor 
to my father’s last fall.
In his final years my father,
with his military bearing 
and impressive height,
has fallen many times,
each tumble denting his dignity:

walking to the newsagents,
the post box, the bank, 
from ladders, in the garden,
in every room of the house, and once
from the attic through the ceiling,
down two flights of stairs.

Until now he has never
broken a bone. 
My sisters joke
that he is made of Teflon,
that he will live forever. 
But it isn’t so. 
He has lost his balance
in the bathroom
and broken his hip. 

After the operation he lies prone,
never to walk again. I stay 
to watch his life ebbing away,
his body hollow out, watch
how the dead wood rises up
from his hands and feet.

I come home
to find the backbone
of the fallen gum
has been chainsawed
into tidy discs,
its stump ground down
to mulch,
its magnificent bearing
leaving the skyline bereft 
within its own negative space.