You call it bushfire – where’s the red
The flames that lick around the trees?
Is that deep blue the river bed?
And the scorched brown earth your edging frieze?
I hope the lizards will escape
Their stretched out forms imply quick flight
The destroying spiral in their wake
And I wonder: is it day or night?
A kaleidoscope of mellow tones
As the wind cannot be seen or heard
Is it a lull, as amid the stones
Silent, alone, sits one small bird?
(c) Poet in the woods 2014