Peeling back a wet blanket

of bracken more or less dead

on its feet, a small patch,

one warily pulled head at a time;

hoping to see the doused

coastal heath, that still smokes

underneath, reignite.

Hot-pink flowering Heath’s installed,

Prickly’s Beauty and Moses, Yellow

Spiky Bitterpea, Sagg: the names,

lit upon like the moled plants,

won’t disclose the wanted wealth

of paucity, desiccation

to be risked in these days

of declining rainfall. Planting

stones at the feet of baby shrubs

to dissuade rabbitual

excavations. Taking fresh

pademelon scats as a sign

of progress: remnant native grasses

reconvening as the patch dries out.

And this morning an Eastern Spinebill,

deeply addicted to the sweets inside

each dripping bell of Heath, grinned

through the patch like good luck,

peppering the bared ground pink

with rifled flowers.