Tirra Lirra peeped around the gum tree, touching the smooth, creamy bark lightly with her hands. The stranger was leaning against another tree, his backpack on the ground beside him.

Tirra's grey-green dress hung drably, still damp from recent rain. She stood quietly, watching the stranger fumble in his pockets. He pulled out a small book with ragged pages and began to turn them.

Creeping away, Tirra circled quietly around until she came behind the tree where the stanger lay. Softly peering around the tree, she saw that the book was a book of poems. She read -

The Old Folk

The old folk do not lay
plans far into the future
do not postpone anything until
the day after tomorrow.

In the evening they burn
letters in the fireplace.
Each newborn morning
they thank God for life
which is no longer
a matter of course.

If they mention Death
everyone cheerfully protests
which makes them
more alone.
With no one can they talk about
this great
at-birth-ordained
event.

Reading intently, Tirra was careless of concealment, and allowed a sigh to escape ... the stranger looked up and was caught by her tawny-brown eyes. A web of stillness held them both as a soft breeze moved the leaves of the grevilleas.

He held her gaze and smiled, his eyes crinkling at the edges. He murmured, 'So, you like poetry?'

Tirra lirra gasped, 'Oh.'