woodsmoke

Mid-winter
and the wood-smoke rolls
in a soft tumble from the roof.
Outside in the meagre sunshine,
it smells of home and warmth,
of our own small circle of firelight.

How does the meaning of a smell change so much?

Two summers ago,
smoke was the smell of fear
filling the air,
permeating every waking moment
penetrating our sleep
turning dreams to nightmares.

Two summers of rain have washed the fear away.
I know in time it will come again,
but for now
I am choosing
to let the smoke tumbling from the chimney
remind me of the warmth inside.

remembering summer

I remember heat,
day after day, relentless.
I remember the air,
thick with smoke and fear,

flood moon; toad; morning commute, still

The Tuesday dVerse prompt this week was “flipping meanings“:

Flood moon

The round orb,
washed white by rain,
floats high in the stream.
It is a record
of what has been.
It asks a question
about what was lost.

Original:
Bushfire Moon (April 2020)

A thin crescent,
bloodied by smoke,
hangs low above the ridge.
This is not a portent
of things to come.
It is a statement,
of what is here.

smoke haze

the chainsaw roars,
drowning out the cicadas

first a wedge to direct the fall,
then slowly, a long slice, until
CRACK
and the tree tilts, then tumbles

a stub in the night

Drawn from the depths of sleep
by a plaintive call,

requiem for a brittlegum

Sweat drips down my face,
my back,
between my breasts.
Sawdust collects in my boots,
soft and grainy
between my toes.

bushfire moon

 A thin crescent,

bloodied by smoke,

hangs low above the ridge.

This is not a portent

of things to come.

It is a statement,

of what is here.

Written a few months ago, when we were constantly ready to evacuate our bushland retreat. There is a downside to a tree-change.