In the lead up to release of the Devil in the Wind poetry collection a little later in the year, here is the second of my poems about the savage bushfires we experienced in 2003.

… the heat rises…
from Perth
across the Nullarbor
until Adelaide
then through Bordertown …

it was always my impression that the weather we experienced in the South Eastern corner of Australia came to us from across the continent, travelling east to west to get here, rather than down from the North, although that pattern seems to have changed in recent years, with very evident graphical evidence on the weather charts of weather trending down to us from the upper portions of the continent in Queensland, the Northern Territory and Western Australia.

In some ways, these impressions of weather are proven false, even in the writing of the poem, which describes an aeroplane journey from East to West, tracking the effects of bushfire all the way.

… we inhaled the acrid leftover taste
last remains transported in smoke
as we left the ground

For the most part, civilian onlookers experience bushfires as images on television, or news reports on the radio. Perhaps billows of smoke in the distance.

I have a vivid recall of becoming terrified by the potency of the images that I saw on the television, that year. In particular, wildfires savaged the outskirts of our capital city, Canberra, and the ferocity of driven embers and licking flames was a harbinger of things to come, and has remained etched in my mind ever since.

That year, I flew from Melbourne to Adelaide at the height of the fires and through a thousand kilometers of journeying, a smoke cloud led the way, from point to point.

that dirty brown that is distinction
from mere cloud
unbroken to the long away
of the horizon

 There is a cruel and imperious majesty in the power of wildfire. Enough to bring me to prayer and supplication in support of a cool change to blow like a frigid wrath as a kindness of weather, from the west.

The poem mentions temperature extremes of 41 degrees and 44 degrees. On Black Saturday in 2009, we experienced consecutive days of 46 degrees. This year (2019) we seem to live in the forty degree range, with a peak so far of 45.6 degrees.

As I write, Tasmania is burning.

weather from the West

we get our weather from the West
the heat rises there
the cool descends
from Perth
across the Nullarbor
until Adelaide
then through Bordertown

to claim the chequerboard of spaces
from the Murray in the North
inland over the Great Divide
to the Bay
to the ocean

~

it is 1,000k
from the place that claims me
to Adelaide
a mere moment
and a time change
through the skies

we inhaled the acrid leftover taste
last remains transported in smoke
as we left the ground

Victoria is burning
and the dead ash
the loose particle-debris
infiltrated even the metallic lungs
of an aeroplane

and when at last the air
seemed clean enough again
to inspire
it stretched below us
that dirty brown that is distinction
from mere cloud
unbroken to the long away
of the horizon
1,000k of ash
spread smooth to catch us
should we perhaps to fall
before arrival

~

for two long days
the temperature has risen
41C     44C
the weather of the west

I feel it on my skin
I picture it
as a magnifier of flame
incendiary to the dry grass
and brittle bracken
intensifying the cruelties of endurance
adding ash and char
to fill the whole of the sky
to suck dry any foolish last-hopes

but today there is change

true
the wind will not be helpful
but it is cool
with the phantom smell
of a few fat droplets
striking the dusted ground
only so very few
but above all
cool

and now I am thinking
if truly we get our weather
from the West
then god speed this chill blast
these handful wet splatter-drops
may they pass
like a frigid wrath
from here
in the West of weather
to home

~

and now it is Mount Buffalo in the air
I can taste it

I’m currently working to bring to life a collection of Bushfire poetry called Devil in the Wind – stories and voices – arising from our disastrous Black Saturday fires of 2009. February 2019 will see the 10th year commemoration. I’ll talk and write more about that in the weeks leading up to April/May 2019, when I hope to have final proofs in my hands and be ready to go with it.

Victoria (Australia) has always had hot fires, though, and before the 2009 firestorm we had a very severe fire season 2003.

My parents told me, and I saw for myself when I visited the town from Melbourne where I was living at the time, that in the evenings they could see the flames rising up over the hills of the Beechworth Gorge each night. Far too close to home.

from the house on Last Street
you can see naked flame
glowing crown-like across tree-tops
red-licking toward sky
bedevilled crimson

The smoke was thick enough to affect breathing, and between the heat and anxiety emanating from the threat, the township (and surrounds) became a very anxious locality.

Hundreds of firefighters and their implements – great big red trucks and water carriers, and lord only knows what equipment, all descended on the township and its surrounds.

Imagine, if you can, the task of feeding, in shifts, hundreds of men either just returning or just about to attend the front lines of a firefight.

Accommodation.

Sanitary facilities.

Fuel.

A logistical wonder, and yet it is achieved anew every time there is a call out.

My first bushfire inspired poems were written in reaction to those 2003 fires, tinged by the worry that comes with being at a distance from the action, while loved ones and everything that is familiar, are under threat.

my childhood
is on fire

In the weeks leading up to April finalization of the Devil in the Wind collection, I’m planning to post the poems and chat a little about the circumstances and my experiences leading to what was written.

There is only a handful of poems, so the series will be time-limited.

Please feel free to join in a little conversation, and share your own experiences, if you wish.

~

#1 Victoria a-flame

and now it is Mount Buffalo in the air
I can taste it

Victoria is an inferno and the remnants
from an acreage devoured
have shrouded the city
like a foul smelling blanket
that is the remnant of land
of all that is good
gone
black and dying

and in the town where I grew
the hills and valleys are alight

from the house on Last Street
you can see naked flame
glowing crown-like across tree-tops
red-licking toward sky
bedeviled crimson

embers on the rise
float closer
maybe near enough to singe
the cricket pitch
where Zim Evans batted
while I bowled
and I don’t think
it can ever be
the way it was

my childhood
is on fire

it is in the taste
of my air

~