High walls:     the weeded gardens.     Retire to your tree/house monkey,     old mister kangaroo won't come     stomping the flowerbeds.     Over the back fence can't see the city for the trees until leaves fill the gutters.   If this trickle is the last of the rains then there will be water bans this summer. Grass will turn brown, bird baths will run dry— drought in the potted suburbs of Perth, a land built from brick and garden, immature avenues staked roadside raised in the city.   How do you justify a tree?     Who will water it and     who will rake the leaves,     who will train it and civilise it? The hardy Geraldton Wax flowers this time every year hedging roadways. Who will sweep up the fallen seed before it strays and hatches hungry to unlevel lawn.   You remember hard blind roots errupting through the patio, but a man smaller than a tree flattened your childhood home— now a quarter-garden duplex and you worry where your children's children will play? Don't. Your sons are clearing new habitat in the sandy northern suburbs. The city is expanding, it's all growing according to plan.