FIRIES

On most days it would be a jaunty ride,

Forty-five minutes or so

Around the hairpin bends,

Winding through the wooded hills

That are green up close – olive green –

But shrouded in blue haze

When you look up from the plain below.

On this day it was a four-hour horror

And the tarmac was like a hotplate

Where the sizzle signalled only foreboding.

Somehow, we made it to the emergency zone.

The flames were leaping across the gullies,

So there was no time to waste.

There were fire breaks to make

And backburning options to take.

Then the spot fires appeared

Like random shots from enemy snipers,

Who wore the livery of Lucifer’s army.

By midnight we were running on empty,

Stirred by instant coffee from a thermos,

Then came the hunger and the headaches,

Throbbing like the pulse of a breaking heart.

And yet we toiled until a gentle first light,

But by then we knew we were spent.

When they drove us to the staging area

There were hugs and handshakes

And, at last, real coffee

To wash down a banquet

Of bacon and egg sandwiches

Prepared by chefs trained in Heaven.

In the new daylight we could see the hillsides -

Studded with stands of black splinters.

Occasionally a solitary bird broke the silence -

Calling in hope or lamenting in despair?

And we thought of the dead animals

With tears in our bloodshot eyes.

Then we heard the stories of the wild night -

The houses lost, and the people still missing.

It went quiet again then, and we sipped our coffee,

And some of us prayed in silence,

While others just stared at the smoky sky

As if they had a million questions to ask.

This poem was inspired by a Facebook posting by the Kurrajong Heights RFS's Lucy Kaboosey and Steven Baranowksi that was shared by Julie Donaghue.  It is my hope that it honours all the firefighters who are giving so much in these trying times.  The photograph, from a collection that originated with the Blaxland’s Ridge RFS, was posted on Facebook by Sharon Greentree and also on the Bowen Mountain, NSW page.

GEHENNA

So this is how it ends -

Days of thunder without rain,

Skies the colour of pain,

Air exhaled by Satan's friends.

Could there be new beginnings -

Birds rising from the ashes,

Fish that thrive in the heat,

And weeds that taste like meat?

No, we are the damned –

Chosen to die in a scorched climax,

Without understanding anything,

Deceived by almost everything.

HOSTAGE

I can see so much if I care to look

Out of the cage that my black dog has built,

Beyond the pages of my latest book,

And through the gauze curtains of ceaseless guilt.

My name is unseen,

No one views this ageing face.

I am just an empty space,

Vanished and spent without a trace,

But please don’t ask me how I died.

I hear so much noise all ‘round me these days -

Voices that argue and accents that coax,

Shouts rising above the muzak that plays,

And laughter that follows dubious jokes.

My name is noiseless,

I live on the edge of sense,

Just beyond all resonance,

Silenced in the present tense.

So no one asks me how I died.

I watch the cars approach and then go past,

Making long drives to vast weekenders;

Or on the road for fun, having a blast,

Utes with plastic plates stuck fast in fenders.

My name is linger.

I live where there is no go.

Every day is mean and slow,

As if there’s nowhere else to know.

Please don’t ask me how I died.

I forget when my green heart was hollowed,

Scooped out and ditched like avocados’ skins,

Destined to bleed for someone I’d followed,

Forever punished for another’s sins.

My name is stigma,

Even though I made no gain.

I wear another’s ball and chain,

And bear tattoos of shame and pain.

Just don’t ask me how I died.