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Logs, at the door, by the fence; logs, broadcast over the paddock; Sprawling in motionless thousands away down the green of the gully, Logs, grey-black. And the opposite rampart of ridges Bristles against the sky, all the tawny, tumultuous landscape Is stuck, and prickled, and spiked with the standing black and grey splinters, Strewn, all over its hollows and hills, with the long, prone, grey-black logs.

For along the paddock, and down the gully, Over the multitudinous ridges, Through valley and spur, Fire has been! Ay, the Fire went through and the Bush has departed, The green Bush departed, green Clearing is not yet come. ’Tis a silent, skeleton world; Dead, and not yet re-born, Made, unmade, and scarcely as yet in the making; Ruin’d, forlorn, and blank.