Tasmania
February 7th, 2006Save as PDF
Tasmania
I’m going to give you a name: Tasmania.
Now give me five words you associate with it:
Ferny
Distant
Devil
Scones
Aborigine
Monstrous mountains plunge to sea,
that hard blue southern ocean.
So distant from familiar flora,
from any life we know
the island grows its own peculiar species.
Trees like hillside kelp bend
under the incessant wind
and far below their tops
on ferny trails roam devil dogs,
green as jade
with dripping fangs
their prey the wallabies and newts,
the wily aborigine,
who likewise hunts and eats the dog.
At night the coastal breakers shine
with violet glow and in their long canoes
the fisher folk sail out to woo
the credulous bream.
With seines of light and ageless songs
they serenade the languid fish
who swim into the waiting nets
and die of joy. The sweet flesh
is consumed at once
before the fish stop smiling.
Europeans ventured here
and planted little towns.
Their dank and dripping gardens
harbored horrid breakfasts
of reluctant scones, cold tea and acrid jam.
The settlers knew the land
and climate were malign
and those that did not sicken
left their stilted farms behind.
The fevered remnant stayed
in unhygenic huts,
fed their sputtering fires
through the pestilential
winter months. At last
the sun appeared and drew them
to the water’s edge,
where they cleansed themselves
and gladly drowned.
