The Bushfire Man

Blue Marue was a flinty soul

Who’d never suffer a fool,

Handy at using his fists, he’d made

A mark at his Junior School,

He only got to the seventh grade

When they kicked him out in the street,

But Blue would challenge their petty rules

By landing square on his feet.

 

He went to work on the Harbour Bridge,

Belting the rivets home,

And looked with pride at the harbourside

As he stood at the crest, alone,

He browned beneath the Australian sun

And his skin was leather, tanned,

As he earned his chow by the sweat of his brow,

But he loved his native land.

 

He took to the bush, went shearing

When the jobs were becoming scarce,

Carried his swag on an aching back

And thought that it could have been worse,

The war came on, he enlisted,

And he fought in the desert sands,

Then found himself in a hedgerow in

The last great battle in France.

 

He marched on home in his uniform

And caught at a Sheila’s eye,

A swift romance and they made their plans

And they wed at North Bondi,

It only lasted a year or two

She was not in his social clique,

He was rough, and ready for anything,

She thought she was quite unique.

 

She soon gave birth to a daughter

And he paid for the girl to grow,

He sent the funds for her schooling

In a Methodists Ladies show,

Her mother filled up her head with thoughts

Above her station in life,

And warned the girl of her father, who

She said had deserted his wife.

 

While Blue, he went to the Snowy’s

Worked on the Snowy Mountain Scheme,

Along with thousands of migrants who

Had all had a similar dream,

To start a life in Australia, far

From the bleak Italian shore,

That lay in a devastation

After the great European War.

 

He bought a cottage out in the scrub

Where he’d always feel at home,

Far from the crush of the city,

Where his wife would remain, alone,

Their daughter never saw much of him,

Whenever she did, she frowned,

Her nose was up in the air, at times

When she wasn’t looking down.

 

He’d go out fighting the bushfires when

The sun burned hot in the sky,

The temperatures up in the forties

And the timber was tinder dry,

He said he’d like to be buried when

His time had come to leave,

He couldn’t stand to be burned, he’d seen

The God of Fire in the trees.

 

The mother died in the summertime,

The daughter came to stay,

She didn’t have any money then,

But she’d rather be away,

Then Blue had fallen, was sinking fast

Like a stooped and gnarled old tree,

He said, I’ll leave you the cottage, lass,

As long as you bury me!’

 

He’d left, he said, the insurance so

She hadn’t to pay a thing,

Just get in touch with the broker, girl,

He’ll sort out everything,

And then he died on a starlit night

On the porch of his cottage home,

He’d come to the world a fighter, and

He was leaving the world, alone.

 

She claimed the insurance money, then

She questioned the parlour’s son,

‘How much is it for cremation,

If it’s cheap, then I’ll have it done!’

So Blue Marue in his coffin went

To the Crematorium,

And she sat back, and counted the change

From the total insurance sum.

 

She slept that night in the cottage,

Lay there, making her future plans,

She’d go straight back to the city,

Once the cottage was off her hands.

But as the hiss of the gas jets flared

And the coffin slid from the bier,

Lightning struck at an old gum tree

And set the tree on fire.

 

A bushfire is a terrible thing,

It creeps, and leaps, and growls,

It spreads right into a firestorm

And when it does, it howls,

The sky glowed red in the evening sky

As the daughter lay and slept,

She stirred when the flames were in the eaves

Then woke, and screamed, and wept.

 

The cottage sat in the midst of flame,

The coffin started to burn,

Up in the trees, the God of Fire

Had left her nowhere to turn,

But Blue Marue was a flinty soul

And he bore the flames with ease,

While his daughter ran like a flaming torch,

And perished, down on her knees.

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Acron 4]

Wonderful story, written in the same vernacular that Samuel Coleridge used in his rhyme of the Ancient Mariner. I was put in remembrance of that poem with its use. I've always wondered, and I hope you can tell me the process used in both poems. Has the writer written the story before the poem or is it all a mental process. Anyway this is a very very good piece of writing ..... Thank you so much sir for sharing

[JM Russell]

I wonder if the mother had not lied to their daughter about the father if she would have been different. It was thought provoking.

[Siren]

Sometimes when I read your work, I feel like I;m reading a whole novel. But then I come to he end, and realize it was only a collection of stanzas. Not chapters upon end, but stanzas. The depth you can fit into so small a space is astounding. I truly enjoy reading your work, and am quite honored that you would share it with me. Thank you so much!

[Draven]

Another great and brilliant work of art.

[Natasha]

David, you write and paint such grand stories filled with imagery, emotion, and creative characters. As Ron said below, the story was told so well that i could not figure out if it was of fiction, or non-fiction sense. I think that is the beauty of it because it could be either or a bit of both. Your writing is top notch and you are among one of the greater poets of this site for your uniqueness and creativity. You bring the surface level typical poem and bring it up to a much higher level than most, filled with beautiful language!

[Lena M. P.]

Fantastic tale. The sins of our children when greed and pride take the place of heart and family. It is the fear of all of us older folk that our wishes won't be followed by our children when we get feeble or die. Sad that we have to feel that way but it is so true today. I really liked the feel with this poem. I liked the progression on his life and how he turned himself around. Nicely penned.

[A Soap Mess Stories]

Another great story as always.

[Valentine]

David, you have out done yourself on this one..I had a feeling she would get it in the end..but not that he would die in a fire as well..I too would like the answer to tRos's question..is the tale foirst or does it just come to mind like my writing does..?Kathie

[Enid Blake]

Fantastic tale!

[Jack...]

What a grand adventure you have taken us on with this masterful piece. I could feel the aching from the hard work, the cold of the snowy winter and the heat of the flames. Very unique and stirring a piece you have written sir. The meter and flow seemed unforced and the rhymimg wonderful.

[spiritwind]

You are a portrait artist and you weild a sure brush stroke.
Then you set your characters to living out the story in your mind's eyes.
You put the Australian dust in our nostrils and in our clothes
and we see that wife and that child through a sorry eye.
You are, I have said before, a master storyteller
with a moral in the tale's end.
Thank you