Dead trees rise from the hills like grey hairs on a bald man’s head,
New leaves cling in clumps to straight black tree trunks,
Wattles emerge under burnt forests,
randomly scattered like plump golden cushions upon the earth,
Blanched tree bodies lie on steep ochre banks,
patiently waiting to decompose.
Country is brown and thirsty,
a ribbon of pools fills empty river beds,
tiny life affirming jewels sparkling in the sun.
Massive trucks deliver loads of logs to local sawmills
down highways devoid of road kill, culled and destroyed by the flames.
Big black tree stumps slowly disappearing
beneath brand new grass and blushing pink heath
where the narrow windy road penetrates regrown forest,
like nothing ever happened here.
Ahead the quiet broad blue waters tell no tales
of that dark firey day,
when she sheltered frightened bodies
and saved them from the grave.