Quendryth Young: AFTER THE BUSHFIRE

.
night-long vigil ―
the glow of red
on his cheeks

Three days later I walk into my valley. The ash is warm, a deep pile carpet under my feet. It blows up around me at each step, in swirling puffs. I breathe it in. It settles on my hair.

A sprinkling of fine grey covers the landscape, transforming it to monochrome. This bush I’ve walked a thousand times is alien. The cladding gone. It is naked. I look into the heart of bushland — at its skeletal structure — into the anima of earth.

I tramp lower into the gully, following the twisting contours of the creek bed. Rocks of all sizes flaunt the smoothness of their curves, variety of outline, the splendour of invulnerability. They rise, like Phoenix, from the ashes, tombstones to a million yesterdays.

In time my bush will dress herself again. But here and now I glimpse her very essence.

bushfire ―
all the shapes
of rock

by Quendryth Young

Alstonville, New South Wales, Australia