Sunday Morning
The smell of burning,
the flicker and scrawl of news.
A smoky stillness…
Sunday Night
The spit and swallow
of nightmares and leaping flames.
Their faces, blackened.
Monday Morning
Their faces, smiling,
as we all wrap arms and laugh,
eyes a hazy red.
Monday Night
Relief is short-lived,
as the death count climbs higher
under the grey shroud.
Now
Two hundred and eight,
Black Saturday, they call it
Branded by firestorm
The Ceremony
The throb of music,
The spirits gather once more
A smoky stillness…
Written after the Black Saturday bushfires under a red, shrivelled sun.
No comments:
Post a Comment