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

[quinfinn]

there is a lesson in here, actually...there are a few lessons, but the burning speaks loudest in the end. i love the characters in this write, you paint them so distinctly and your imagery is so vivid...this poem is so easy to read it is like it writes itself before your eyes. awsome write and read!

[Tate Morgan]

Death the final; arbitor has the last laugh. Mercy is a traight reserved for the deserving . I always tell my daughter dont grant forgiveness as if it were a blank check. I never forgive anyone who doesnt expressly ask for forgivness with a repentant heart. To give forgivness to another who doesnt deserve it is a weakness not a grace. Beautiful write as always. Another Paget to set beside the finest painting.

[Marie]

As Ron says, "Wonderful story." Honor death wishes or all Hell (as this did) will break loose.

[David Scott]

Oh yes. This was a twisted tale. A warning to the young "no it all" attitude that prevails in our society. The poem was in usual good form and the story flowed well.
One more to add to the collection of greats.