My nose has its own memories.
The smell of a bushfire in our hills
Sends me foggy out of bed at 3.45am.
I stick my head out of five windows
And check the dried leaves for fire.
The smoke has no address on it, so my fear is up.
I can't find fire, so I can't sleep. Slowly
The fog clears and I remember the TV news
Footage of a bushfire and a major burn-back.
I sleep in the lounge where my fears are put out,
Where the red glow of dawn comforts me.
|