The Scent (scent of a firey)

Out by the big river where lush grows green and tall,
Fall a little further away, out from beyond these winding reaches,
All banged up between range and sea, to find her waiting.
Waiting on a distant fire field, crew mates ready close at hand,
Calm and clear headed, all sorted and good to cover, challenge the storm.
Standing with drip torch in her hand, listening for the call,
As wild a fury lashes, breaks its way through the dry bush scrub,
That scent, the scent of a firey fills every breath she takes,
To draw her in closer towards its roar, heat and beating heart
Two, three hundred foot wall of flame riding a fierce tangled gale,
Holding off for that shout… Hold, hold it, the wall, sixty meters,
Forty meters. Hold, hold… Go! Go! Go! Turn drip torch downward.
Dry bush scrub, she walks, runs up the line between inferno and her mates,
Fresh flames take hold ripping along the ground into life, tearing up,
Slow like a fresh change, it draws the life from the firestorm’s lungs,
Stealing fuel, sucking the O2 out of it, down to its last gasps in a lingering moment.
Her scent, the scent of a firey, a rural firefighter, a volunteer.

Port Tree sunrise

2 responses to “The Scent (scent of a firey)

    • Cheers, slpmartin. Started writing about a month ago, but kept looking for the right words to build the situation, the experience like reader is right there in the moment. Still unsure on a few of the words, but here is the closest I’ve managed to render with time.

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