Stop by the roadside for me.
Listen to the sounds of the saws shouting,
gnawing at the wood of my brothers,
then the final crashing call
of timber falling
into unsettled silence.

We stood here undisturbed,
the stillness broken by
currawong caws,
kookaburra cacklings,
magpie caroling,
the loudest noise to
shock us from
our forest trance.

Our elders endured for centuries
three hundred seasons
or more, surviving summer drought,
winter snow,
fire and flood.
Growing in a decimated dream.

The saws strike up one more.
Nightmares stride my home.
I have heard
in centuries past
the Sahara was likewise
green.
  

                               6 July 2024