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

he’s been wearing yellow
and a helmet
for about nine days

We call these men and women ‘Fire-ies’ in our typical shorthand vernacular.

Victoria and Australia have a long history of reliance on Volunteer Firefighters to manage the fires that happen each Summer season in the rural and remote areas away from the cities and the larger towns, where salaried firemen operate.

In recent years, the towns have extended and the bush has shrunk. The Volunteers are diminished in number, and the fires are allowed to burn.

We attempt to steer wildfires now, not put them out.

When I was a teenager, I helped to do what they call ‘mopping up’ for one fire that occurred in the same area as these 2003 fires – Mt Pilot, near Chiltern.

A knapsack on my back, and clambering up and down what seemed like mountains, but were in reality modest hills. Such hard work! At the end of a shift, we were fed the triangle sandwiches made by the Ladies Auxiliary, and just wanted to have a bath, or to sleep.

… you have to stop sometimes
try to chew a sandwich triangle
take a drink that isn’t flavored
by eucalyptus burning

When you see a man in yellow, lying on the ground, exhausted, you can know what he has been doing, with great certainty. He has …

… run for life from flames the wind had leaping
returned again to hold the line
to let evacuees make good
run again

returned

And you can know, with that same certainty, that the next thing he will do is stagger back to the truck, because the fire continues to call, and it is always time to be moving.

portrait of a man in yellow

he looks straight ahead
but I don’t think he can see anything
his eyes are too much of water
a little out of sync
and the dirty soot and scorch
stained on his face and hands
tell all that anyone need know

he’s been wearing yellow
and a helmet
for about nine days
stumbled now to a two-hour break
because you have to stop sometimes
try to chew a sandwich triangle
take a drink that isn’t flavored
by eucalyptus burning

stretched out on the ground
the grass is enough for a pillow
he doesn’t notice
doesn’t care
right away he’s sleeping

for he has aimed the hose
and beaten with a dampened sack
run for life from flames the wind had leaping
returned again to hold the line
to let evacuees make good
run again
returned

you cannot countermand an act of god
you can only buy some time
and he has spent hard
given almost all he has
in a pool of sweat and tears
each aimed at a hot lick of flame

the effort may have blackened
some part of his soul
and he can’t quite remember
what it is like
to feel entirely human

but two hours have already passed
the horn is blaring
another fire fighting implement is ready
to take position
at one more place of heat and flame
and driving wind

so he gathers together his pieces
takes a rattled breath and cough
to clear the throat
then stands and staggers
to the truck
it’s time to be moving

~