Analysis of Camden Poplars

Old soldiers these, their lances guarding land
Purloined from tribe and tilled by convict hand.
Macarthur’s sheep they pierced and prodded back
With solid shafts of shadow golden-black.

Till trade took root upon Nepean’s banks
And profit bloomed beyond the stick of reason.
The aspens drop their arms in sagging ranks –
The river floods regardless of the season –
The river floods and with appropriate thanks
I wake and work some conscientious treason.

Bright spear of peace that seldom suburb has.
The spire of Camden church now guards the trees.
I smile, my irksome day accomplished, as
Their hands bid welcome, waving in the breeze.