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.
