Monday, 31 December 2012


some poems to remind you
of the bush fire season
they were written for the daylesford bush fire memorial
two of the poems were chosen
the memorial was recently installed at the skate park

A black charcoal drawing
carelessly scribbled
into the landscape
with a burning match.
The brutal beauty
of the wild flames,
like a weaving,
meanders through trees.

Leaving behind a trail
of black landscapes.
Exquisite beauty
Fire drawings in the sky,
colouring in the density
of towers of smoky clouds.

Billowing like sails
of ancient viking ships,
having razed the land,
Leave their charcoal signature
in the landscape
Controlled fire,
a friend.
Uncontrolled fire,
worse than an enemy.
destroys without a thought
whole ways of life.
Never ever to be renewed
Masterpiece in red.

Concerto of flames.
Opus of rolling fire.
Symphony of blistering screams.
Disharmony of sounds.
sonata of silence….
A careless match,
roadside summer dry.
A run of fire,
turns wild.
Chaos, madness, panic,
terror, fear, horror
the stillness of a charcoal night black.

View without the emotion,
The burned foot print
of the fire
is beautiful.
Like a black and white
photographic print
of the last century
A thrown match,
like an artist's brush,
paints a mural across the sky.
An image of intense red,
of devastation,
build in hope.
The sun's eye
with tears of sadness,
at the destructive burning below.
everything conspired,
to review by fire,
the sum of
all of men's efforts.

The yellow heart of the fire
licks at the orange edge,
turning into red
the print against the sky
by a new expressionist.
Title: Destruction 
"During the Second World War, Winston Churchill’s finance minister said Britain should cut arts funding to support the war effort. Churchill’s response: “Then what are we fighting for?”"


  1. Go, Winston, and go gently, inevitable fires!

  2. First, Petrus, I love Winston's comment, steadfast and noble.
    I remember the day, the awful day in 2009, when Victoria burned. It was 46 degrees; I watched a helluva wind hurtle across my garden like the flames of hell. How anything survived it I don't really know. Guts, I guess!
    Today it's horribly hot. I'm stuck inside, but at least I know I can talk to good, likeable people.