by FRED DUNCAN
Gently, he was lowered on an autumn afternoon,
Sun shining through the eucalypts, scent freed from their leaves,
We laid flowers on Peter’s coffin, Croft played a Dylan tune,
The harmonica wrung memories – tears wiped away on sleeves;
Peter – friend and neighbour – in his cottage, words and music strewn,
He breathed our island’s story, and through his works he weaves
Settlers, soldiers, families; forests, farms and convict station ruin.
The Hanslows in the valley fields, were bringing in the sheaves.