Taking Root Poem by David Lewis Paget

I'd seen Lianne at her cottage door
When I'd walked the old bush track,
The cottage had been abandoned, but
She was gradually bringing it back,
She painted it and she patched it
There was nothing she couldn't do,
I even saw her up on the roof
Repairing a faulty flue.

I simply waved at the girl at first
And she'd smile, and wave on back,
She must have been used to seeing me
On that little-used outback track,
I wondered why she would settle there
In a cottage, out on her own,
I never saw anyone else to share
The place that she called her home.

I stopped, of course, and I spoke to her
Once I'd passed a dozen times,
She said that she loved the fresh, clean air,
That she'd travelled from colder climes,
The sun was warm in the early spring
But I mentioned about the drought,
‘The summer heat is intense out here
With nothing to keep it out.'

What trees there were had died long since
For the lack of a steady rain,
They stood, grey, gaunt and twisted, like
Arthritic men, in pain,
She said she was going to grub them out
And plant fresh trees when she could,
Something with lots of leaves for shade
And water them, well and good.

I mentioned a couple of species that
Would grow at a furious pace,
Like the Australian willow, it
Was known for its speed, and grace,
She'd put some in when I passed again
And we talked of family trees,
She said that her Gran had left the place
To her, to do as she pleased.

‘My people, back in the early days
Were some of the pioneers,
They built this cottage and tilled the soil
And they persevered for years.
But Gran took off for the city once
Her husband took ill, and died,
He's buried out in the back out there,
With his father, by his side.'

She showed me the graves of her forefathers,
The stones were weathered and worn,
She'd tried to tidy them up a bit
Erected a limestone cairn,
‘They came and slaved and suffered here
And died, and followed suit,
That's why I came to save the place,
I felt like taking root.'

I caught a glimpse of her eyes at that
And saw a glimmer of tears,
She was the last of the line of them,
These family pioneers,
She wasn't a striking beauty but
Had passion, guts and grace,
And that's when I fell in love with her
And I told her, to her face.

She smiled and patted my hand: ‘You're sweet,
But you don't know me at all,
Maybe you'll get to know me, if
You keep on coming to call.'
So I did, on into the summer then,
And followed through to the fall,
But then I was sent away for months
To a farm where I couldn't call.

She had no phone, she had no mail
No electricity,
She spent her nights on a garden seat
With a lantern on a tree,
The summer had seen a blistering heat
But the fall brought on the rain,
It was well into winter by the time
I was able to call again.

I found her out in the garden, where
She stood in a sort of trance,
I tried to engage her attention, but
She barely spared me a glance,
Her skin was coloured a shade of grey
And her legs were rough and stark,
Her feet had sunk in the mulch out there
And her ankles looked like bark.

I pulled at her hands but she simply leaned,
She swayed like a sapling bent,
Out from the tips of her fingers grew
Some strange disfigurement,
Her hair was tangled with creepers
That were snaking along her back,
I thought I could wake her with a kiss
But I seemed to have lost the knack.

I left her there in the garden, but
I see her from time to time,
The seasons come and the seasons go
But Lianne continues to climb,
Her clothes fell off, they were rotted through
Now she needs no type of suit,
Lianne's as busy as ever,
As she said, she's taking root.

20 September 2012