L
Latin_sensation
Guest
can some-one please help me?
i would really apreciate it
Thankyou .
FIRE SPRING (Cockatoo, Victoria, 1983)
March:
A fire-storm has halted
the slow human conflagration of the hills.
The dozer like a bright yellow dung-beetle backs
and shovels its way through rubble
where a family once paid rent.
The house seems a mix of cutlery
and hearth-pan ash. So little left.
Stone steps and terraces lead nowhere,
or to a tractor-flattened scrape,
a brick wall has a blue-white circle
where a shrub's blow-torch was fanned against it.
Twisted tinsel was thick steel:
iron's purity can't match
Earths's thick ceramic clay;
but dazed irises push through.
Around a white weatherboard the wind spared,
the wattles have a set good seed this summer.
From brown gum to burnt hedge the rosella darts
like a belated crimson flower.
April:
Where a trailer hit by six thousand degrees
became instant wreck, an old man hobbling
plants brick walls. Everywhere
saws, axes and radios, sounds
of that one-way process, a city getting built.
A van takes the drooping road-signs down.
Fruit trees burnt below the graft are mattocked out
and camellias die; but the gums come back
- fire is the remedy for smug
wet-loving broad-leaved plants.
Tree ferns sprout again, nothing greener
than their new fronds among black.
The bulbs come back, nothing has happened,
drought are summer naps between
green purposeful winters.
Fresh boughs like watery apple-shoots
split out through blackened bark
in the gum forests spring.
Possums and aphids will be scarce for a while,
but rain is speckling on the refilled dams, as
clouds swell grey and bulbous over charcoaled hills
with no apology for being late.
i would really apreciate it
Thankyou .
FIRE SPRING (Cockatoo, Victoria, 1983)
March:
A fire-storm has halted
the slow human conflagration of the hills.
The dozer like a bright yellow dung-beetle backs
and shovels its way through rubble
where a family once paid rent.
The house seems a mix of cutlery
and hearth-pan ash. So little left.
Stone steps and terraces lead nowhere,
or to a tractor-flattened scrape,
a brick wall has a blue-white circle
where a shrub's blow-torch was fanned against it.
Twisted tinsel was thick steel:
iron's purity can't match
Earths's thick ceramic clay;
but dazed irises push through.
Around a white weatherboard the wind spared,
the wattles have a set good seed this summer.
From brown gum to burnt hedge the rosella darts
like a belated crimson flower.
April:
Where a trailer hit by six thousand degrees
became instant wreck, an old man hobbling
plants brick walls. Everywhere
saws, axes and radios, sounds
of that one-way process, a city getting built.
A van takes the drooping road-signs down.
Fruit trees burnt below the graft are mattocked out
and camellias die; but the gums come back
- fire is the remedy for smug
wet-loving broad-leaved plants.
Tree ferns sprout again, nothing greener
than their new fronds among black.
The bulbs come back, nothing has happened,
drought are summer naps between
green purposeful winters.
Fresh boughs like watery apple-shoots
split out through blackened bark
in the gum forests spring.
Possums and aphids will be scarce for a while,
but rain is speckling on the refilled dams, as
clouds swell grey and bulbous over charcoaled hills
with no apology for being late.