Poem

We love to use timber with a story and this great poem typifies why:

I stood astride the ranges four hundred years or more,
My limbs reach out to fight for light and make me forest lord.
From hungry ground I drew my blood to quench a fiery thirst,
The granite rocks around me - my roots smashed into earth.

They came with sombre faces - had murder in their eye,
Cursing as they fought me - swore I would surely die.
Dark was near "farewell my mates" - I thundered to the ground,
And swore an oath - "four hundred years - still my soul will be around.

Dawn was fresh - they stripped me bare - lopped me at the crown,
I kicked and wrenched and twisted - they cleaved me up the heart.
Squared me into sections - two big hand spans by five,
Don't gloat you forest butchers for I am still alive.

Ten thousand tons a week I bore as a staunch on in a bridge,
Across the Kiewa river - far from my native ridge.
And down the years I fought the loads and twisted bucked and kicked,
"You've worked my hard you bastards, but I am never licked'.

Treat me gentle now - with reverence- for I've surely done it tough,
Of bucking twisting fighting, I've really had enough.
A long grand table, this time, is my final place of rest,
Proud that I'm still classed - a king among the best.

Take me, share me, love me, help keep away the tears
I'll be true to your family for at least three hundred years.

Written by Barry Donchi - Timber Recycler, Conversationalist, Timber Lover,
Managing Director Nullarbor Forest Timber Industries
Pty Ltd Est. 1995