The smell of bush fire is unmistakeable.
It pervades streets, offices, trams,
The calm hint of destruction
Stark against our coddled days.
Heat is a harpie, luring us
Dumbly into somnolent submission,
Stretching up to her, arching
Into her limbless liquidity.
But then, in the morning,
We are left with stuffy heads,
Overcast skies, a cool determination
And the ache of burning leaves.
