(header photographs by Harry Waite 1912-2011)

The Myth of the Sacred Brumby

 

 

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Contents

Contacts


Tree Rescue

Voice of the Tree Rescue Group July 1989 & Spring 1989

 

The Sad Cabaret

The Song of 702

 
Out here, there is no time 'cept morning, afternoon and night time.
When darkness falls, I crawl away, light a candle and stay awake till I can take no more of moths in suicidal routines
playing dare with the flame, reeling sickeningly off into the dark,
their wings like shooting stars aglow like embers; in fact are  embers.
This late night bizarre ballet takes its toll, when with a puff,
the day is done and to slumber I try to drift.
The Bush, wilderness, is where I am, a greenie camp, a hidden
tarp. When day breaks as it surely must, my body develops the
wanderlust. Waiting in the September morn for the heat to come
along with dawn is like being a passenger in New York waiting for
the Titanic. So with body still cold, bones creaking and feeling
oh, so old, from my cocoon of blankets sleeping bag and mat, I
emerge, for I am a tree support person.
I feed trees, well not exactly trees, rather people high above me
chirping like little birds upon their wooden perches. I must
make food, get them water for they are the front line to prevent
the slaughter the Wog Way Road we aim to stop. Our heroes
above shout, 'Stop the Chop", so as they aren't allowed to move.
It's up to me to give them food. All through the day, it's hide
and seek as cops come looking for the mothers on the ground. I
hide behind trees and snatch a peek and when they leave (if I'm,
not one of the few they take along), then back to my babes up in
the trees, to their umbilical cords the lines they throw down to
me, attach today's food, tonight's dinner.
Morning is gone: afternoon comes along. This I know for the sun
starts to sink low and I've cooked tea, thermos full, me down
below. I shout to the trees from my hidey hole in the bush,
"dinner's ready, throw down your cord" Quickly I dart to the trees,
in with the flask then away again, whoosh.
I retreat once more to my tarp in the bush, to start the night's sad cabaret,
but most nights, so damn wacked I fall asleep as soon as I hit the sack.
 
Bruce Taylor
"Tree Rescue" Spring 1989
 
 
Poetry and rainbow scarves
 aren't gonna save the trees
 I'm gonna buy a chainsaw
 and chop off loggers' knees
 I'11 take a snig truck up their driveways
 and debark their mortgaged houses
 but leave a room for habitat
 for their children and their spouses
 No, poetry and rainbow scarves
 aren't gonna save the bush
 and neither will a festival
 with a thousand person WHOOSH!
 'coz while we stand there singing
 " save the forests, please"
 off goes another shipload
 to the wily Japanese
 But there is One place that we can save
 if we are strong. and true
 we can keep the greedy bastards
 out of Coupe seven-o-two
 It may not be much to look at
 but it's here we'll make a stand
 in 702, the greenies will
 be taking back the land
 So let them bring their dozers
 and their chainsaws if they dare
but they'll find a band of fine young elves
a-waiting for them there.
   
Bob Fenwick
 August, 1989
  Forest Rescue Camp
"Tree Rescue" Spring 1989