1. Torched

They scorched the earth,
every – living – thing;
torched it to death
while the registers sung.

What were they thinking?
An island ravaged.
By chemical razing –
irreparable damage.

No insects, herds
no flies or hoppers,
no grasses, birds
no bracken or wattles.

Just trophied woodchips,
in a ten-eightied region,
sick, tumour’d devils,
Gunn’d down – near extinction.

They sanctioned the science,
with political bluff,
and knee jerk compliance,
like blind bleeding buff.

Couldn’t we see
there was something debauched?
Foolhardy, mindless;
too late. It’s been torched.

2. Road – to Osterley

The road to Osterley,

   it’s hardly Damascus,

but COULD we change our attitude

 to the wombats who live there?

Instead of destroying them,

  to treasure them?

They predate us

 they’re – part of our world,

there’s nothing else like them,

   unique on our planet,

celebrated by us,

  on our coats of arms,

they’re becoming extinct

  Thylacine and devils (nearly)

for ecological balance

  we can’t assume they’ll survive

Do we get it????

  When their fields are cleared,

their holes filled,

  their trees felled

and their hideaways flamed;

  offspring are denied,

(and often maimed).

It’s up to us to change our view,

  respect them

(as we do our dogs),

  remove the blinkers:

don’t be stuck…

  in a fog.

3. In my Blunnies

…killing wombats?

No clues

from its powerful, perfect arc –
Paddington nose to stubby fur tale,
pinkie punk ears still pricked;

lying beside the Tiers’ gravel verge,
unkempt grass clumps still stuck

in its ridiculously long waxy claws;
in repose – still.

Neither clues
from its polished coat,
thick and wiry,
no tell-tale claret-caked fur;

  ‘til toeing it from its roadside rest,
I saw its eyes,
once glistening, eager and alert,

now, unseeing – inert.

Opaque pearl agates,

stone – senselessly – dead.

4. Steady as she goes

The Hereford heifer was bellowing,
safe for now,

marooned on her lonely mound
tan- white flanks heaving in fright,
mini- waves lapping over drifting logs,
safe only if she remained calm, motionless,
not stepping
towards the roiling surf.

Tim Hurburgh is a Tasmanian writer, poet and architect living in the central highlands. He is dismayed by the continuous destruction of Tasmania’s natural flora and fauna by forest clearing (including chemical spraying), roadkill, and uncontrolled flooding. He recently published an illustrated book, Tall Poplars, which also deals with the preservation of our natural assets – structures, flora and fauna.