I was moved to write a Christmas poem, today, but I post it with a small caution. It comes after weeks of uncontrolled fired in New South Wales and Queensland, and it comes after the smoke from them has crossed oceans and this continent.

It is not a cheery Christmas poem, so please don’t read it without bearing in mind my caution. If you still wish to proceed, please do.

on fire (just a bauble)

the bauble
is on fire

the christmas bauble
burning

it is the red and gold

I am on
the blue one

where all
the nuance green
is turning yellow

the brown
is floating
into dust

but still
I
am on
the pretty blue

gazing
at the red
and
at its shimmers

it stares

or so
it seem to me

either
in jealousy
or
in warning

my christmas tree
is fading
fast

it is a structure
in my mind

presents wrapped
in faded paper
pine needles
strewn
no longer
on their branches

the baking walls
radiate
a constant awareness

and the rage
of fires
to the north
is inescapable

I breathe it now
from far away

in places
blue

in places
green and brown
and places dirt or dust
are becoming places
ashen grey

as I feel
ashen grey

knowing my bauble
too
is burning

open presents
while I can

I rush
in hope
to find some water

maybe a droplet
in a plastic bottle

hosed up
from underneath the earth
near a place
that is now
burning

ah
this baking
dries my mouth
I’m parched

the heat rolls on
incessant

and I wonder
what is the meaning

where is the purpose

what is the point

and
where
and when
is rain

where and when
is tomorrow

I watch the red
and I
am the one
on fire