by Kate King
The signs were there –
in the crackle of the humus
and the harshness of the air,
the clearing of the forests
and the drying of the soil.
The bugs beneath the bark
scattered. Leaf beetles flickered off.
The lizards in their hollow logs
hunkered down. Only the thick-barked
eucalypts stood tall against the foe,
leaves glinting in the splintered light.
Their conflagration fuelled with
peeling bark and ever-falling leaves.
Came the flames, jiving from crown
to screaming crown, quick-stepping through acacia
and fern, a dervish, angry and unforgiving,
destroying all that lay upon its path.
Then, the ghastly silence. No lyrebird
sang a trickster song. No koala
capered across the forest floor.
From the blackened branches fell
a shrike-thrush arrested mid-song.
Still, hope stirred. From underground
and from the ribs of forest giants,
new shoots unfurled, a delicate lace of hope
green against the charcoal of despair.
From ash springs something new.
Life forms bonds, intricate and complex,
finds fresh ways to persist
on this burnt-out ailing earth.