Wattle Road

Arriving in August, there’s a sprinkling like dew,

in weeks a million blossoms spill down the avenue.

Golden wattle star-bursts as brilliant as light -

yellow orbs that shine in September sunlight.

Pollen colours the air, floating on the breeze,

flowing, flying, budding, bursting, tumbling with ease.

Cascading through valleys, trailing down mountains,

wattle sprays are everywhere — like lemon fountains.

A billion butter sunbursts decorate the street,

shower me with gold dust, wild wattle at my feet.

Wattle bordering the road from my farm into town.