those Huon pines were once supple in the rivers of time

their ghosts were feint yet coloured like some black night devoid of ink

sunk silent in a flooded grave

for centuries and years they held close those histories bound tight in circles of wood

they were culled by the Van Diemanlanders

stalked one by one until they were lost in some anonymous gulag

their pines once soldiers now lay slain saluting the dead

no brothers initiated in blood remained to witness that white holocaust