Today, as is our wont on the rare, perfectly gorgeous, Tasmanian Summer day, warm and free of gales, DB (husband) and I took off in the boat upriver for a spot of fishing. Recent sand and water movements have closed the river mouth again, so it might not be long before algal bloom prevents us from our hunter-gathering escapades in this place.
On our return, I sat in the bow with a good view of the river bank on either side, marvelling at the durability of dead trees scattered amongst the regenerated bush growth. One couldn’t say they survived, because they didn’t, in a living sense, but here they remain. The next bushfire will likely take them out. For now, they sculpt the skyline. Here’s the poem I wrote to capture the images.
Steadfast sentinels
High above the verdant heads
Of those that followed—the regenerists,
Death white sentinels raise their limbs
In thanks and silent supplication
To a cloud-pocked sky.
Right by the river, so close,
Though far, far out of reach
When the ravage’s fiery fangs sank deep,
Sucking, bleeding life force dry.
Weaker forms rendered to ash,
Yet these remain.
A glory of respect—for what they were, are,
A warning—of a terror lurking, fearless, ready to pounce
A reminder—against complacent
Acceptance, anticipation
Of the bush’s constancy to offer
Perpetual succour, shield or shelter.
Caenys Kerr, 11 January 2024
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