Burning
(Montmorency bushfires 1965)

The hills were burning.

We sat in lines on concrete
watching red flicker amongst green
like Christmas cellophane.

The air was filled with smoke
as we followed mum home.
Everyone kept looking at the hills.

Dad stuffed tennis balls
into the tops of downpipes
filled the spouting with water.

Mum hosed the outside walls
washing summer dust
off white weatherboards.

Everyone glancing over shoulders
like starlings at the cat’s dish.
Watching the hills.

The house sparkled in yellow light.
Darkness came suddenly
in a rush of smoke and clouds.

Then rain.

About the Poet
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