The Road
The road is filled with burning wood
people leaving, are told they should
grab some clothes and hit the road
hear the windows behind explode
strangers help with rattled tins
while others who will put out the bins
and stare ahead with Thoreau glances
resolve to fight, and take their chances
On the outskirts of the town
bottles filled, lines are down
while soporific, prattling fools
shout at us from atop their stools
trucks are rumbling up the hill
as warbling birds begin their shrill
marbled halls begin to shake
and argue over what’s at stake
Horses gallop at the sun
knowing that their race is run
the kangaroo who jumps the fence
suffocates in the smoking dense
koalas feet are singed to bone
sit and stare, confused, alone
sheep and cattle, scorched and dead
or mercy’s end, shot through the head
The sirens sound, smash through gates
to whatever hell they know awaits
the melting steel and alloy seeps
the mother of a missing child who weeps
who has no clothes, or place to rest
but has a story, she can attest
to the flames that ripped and scarred the earth
and questioned what the pain is worth
As heads are counted in consulting maps
hands are raised to point out traps
while embers pulse, in slumbered flight
beneath the feet trudged through the night
the wind that threatens, from the south
breath reaching shallow, dust in mouth
and catch the sleep they dare not embrace
and screw their courage to the sticking place
And fear, in its so-called primal scream
transmogrified to another dream
to stand by and watch the savage breeze
to not bring those who stand unto their knees.
It’s quiet on the road, as uniforms wait
to quell the fire in its frenzied state
the choking, quelling breathing fumes
transposes days in lyric tunes
And birds, felled by burning flailing wings
swept away by fire’s grande opera that whistles, sings
silent, the birds wash up in easy reach
as tourists huddle on the beach
the fire it snarls, and then it yields
but not before it strips the fields
for the owners, who return to find
the irony in their peace of mind
The irony, the empty tank
as subversives talk of breaking rank
and access to the roads is blocked
where no-one is surprised, outraged or shocked
His Master’s Voice proclaims the thoughts
and disappears within his Courts
while water arrives from overhead
and rains on the living and the dead
While beneath the helmets, the weathered beats
exhausted, the weary, slump in their seats
there is food enough to go around
no one talks or makes a sound
While leaders hide or smile through grins
and reflect a while on subverted sins
and remind us of what we all hold sacred
appear before us, standing naked.
© copyright – Stephen Newman 2020