by FRED DUNCAN
The roar of flames in eucalypts, the fire-storm glare:
A child runs through the sparks that shower the forest trails,
She knows them well and stumbles in the choking smoke to where
A wombat’s dug a burrow, deep within the grassy swales,
She squeezes through its entrance, drinks the earthy air,
And in the womb-like darkness, she hears the soft exhales
Of the wombat’s breathing, and feels its matted hair,
And gives her thanks to God – the God of all Marsupials.