On stifling days in the dusty playground we clustered around tree trunks, busily scratching their bark with bobby pins.

Like gatherers of mystery, we delved beyond the outer shell’s splintery thickness to reach the smooth, cool, secret skin of the tree.

Like a miracle, the eucalypt exuded its blood-red ooze, filling our noses with a sharp, metallic scent.

Looking back now I realise: by wounding those trees, we were seeking respite from the new country’s cruelties.

We scratched and we scratched till those trees told us we were home.