Red

There was a time when the sky was blue,
the air was clear and the dams were full.
Roos frolicked in bush lands with no end
as drop bears lay in Eucalyptus beds.
The Murray ran free with water to spare
and farms were lush with livestock in pairs.
Forests and beaches of unrivaled beauty;
national parks and heritage sites - all well and plenty!

Then a dipole shift in the ocean out West
bid the rain adieu, save some drops at best.
The sun moved closer as the water ran away
leaving plants to dry and farms to fray.
Dams ran poor and run poorer still
as the bush hoards it's rich, leafy fuel.
Then came a spark, with arson to come
and thus we cower in fear of the sun.

The sky now red and full of fumes
as the smoke billows high in ashy plumes.
The horizon, lit in an eerie orange,
as the front closes in on the coastal fringe.
Firemen, laymen, buckets and hoses,
planes, trucks, tankers and choppers:
they're of almost no use on days like this,
when it's 45 degrees and a Southerly hits.

Gusts of wind blow through the Southern coast,
from Bega to Nowra; they've lost all hope.
It won't be long before Wollongong goes
and the fires knock upon the doors of home.
They've burned for months like never before;
four million hectares and they pang for more.
The air is ash, the winds are dry,
and as of late, seventeen have died.

Roads are blocked, towns surrounded by flames.
The only refuge being beaches and bays.
The burdened stand upon blackened sands
with their backs to the waves and eyes on their land.
They watch as the blaze burns up to the shore
as it takes their homes, memories and all.
They've nothing left, save for embers and dust,
their livelihoods lost like steel to rust.

And here we stand amidst a tragic disaster
that our leader was warned of well in the past.
But nothing was done, instead, a generous cut
to the funding of those who fight at the front.
A dismal reaction to a national crisis
that left three of our hero firemen lifeless.
What more would it take to shift your mind from profits?
A holiday to Hawaii as your state burns to bits?

Our heroes are tired, drained and sore,
yet they all soldier on, always ready for more.
The burn of our Summer only fans the flames;
still they keep battling on, not for money or fame.
Their homes, they've lost, yet they fight on for others.
Their time, not paid, yet they struggle for hours.
Fighting the front of a fiery red hell
until the blessed rains come and all becomes well.