His speech was slow, so very slow:
riddles and answers.
He would ask his question then pause,
and look at me for so long that I wondered
whether to offer an opinion of my own.
When he was ready he would squint one eye,
smile in his confidential way,
then himself provide the answer
and wait for some acknowledgement
as though his words contained wisdom.
Often they did.

"Not many people come this way," he said,
waving a hand toward the tangled bloodwoods.
"They're just not interested any more."
He shook his head sadly for the uninterested ones
who, not seeing what he saw, were unaware of their loss.
"Look at this!" There was excitement in his voice,
the quiet excitement of a secret shared,
as he pointed out a Huon pine
growing in Queensland's sandy coastal soil.
"It shouldn't be here, but it is," he said.
"A miracle."

His world was a world of miracles, of wonders, of nature,
that in centuries past he would have peopled with spirits
and fuelled with magic.
He understood the seasons and could predict their strength
by the behaviour of the birds;
he knew the weather signs in the trees and the earth;
the glittering winter stars that warned of morning frost
were his confidants.

He was one with the land
and his aging, ageless face grew puzzled
at the difficulty experienced by visitors to his world
in perceiving what was obvious to him.
"I'm a voice in the tanglewood," he said,
"but everybody's looking the other way."