|South of my days' circle, part of my blood's country.|
rises that tableland, high delicate outline
of boney slopes wincing under the winter,
low-trees blue-leaved and olive, outcropping granite -
clean, lean, hungry country. The creek's leaf-silenced.
willow-choked, the slope a tangle of medlar and crabapple
branching over and under, blotched with a green lichen;
and the old cottage lurches in for shelter.
As Gail and the agronomist tramped each paddock looking for damaged and diseased trees they bickered
over letting the sunshine in versus maintaining the canopy. Gail erred on the cautious side.
Peter's local bloke with a portable sawmill set up
for a few days and milled the felled timbers in preparation for
the fences creating the rotation paddocks to be carved out during the early autumn.