It is a lovely early spring evening and, with the light just beginning to fade, Trevor takes his harmonica from his pocket and begins to play. Ryan, listening to the first few bars, starts to sing to his accompaniment in a beautiful light tenor voice:
Southern trees bear a strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,
Black body swinging in the Southern breeze,
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.
Pastoral scene of the gallant South,
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,
Scent of magnolia sweet and fresh,
And the sudden smell of burning flesh!
Here is a fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, for a tree to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter crop.
Matthew Flinders' Cat Page 51
