By Paul Hetherington
Tumultuous, for months
the aftermath of fire—
burnt stumps, spindles of trees,
ash rising on the slightest wind,
wafting, sinking
like particles of memory,
nights charred with recollection,
cries chasing conversations,
and incalescent weather
like 40 days of sunstroke
darkening the district.
The local store piled its verandah
with new goods,
stashed beer and milk
in its freezers. Its generator groaned
and, where the fire had caught it,
its west side leaned
into black-toothed grimace.
Someone picked up Jimmy’s kite
twenty kilometres from the township.
Someone else wrote letters
to every politician in the district.
A teenage girl was seen
by three men walking
on the road out of town
although no girl lived there.
Rain came in drops like stones
clagging ash, banging roofs,
making molten dreams.
This poem was taken from Fire: a collection of stories, poems and visual images, which we originally published in 2013 in response to the Margaret River fires in 2011.
