Ballad Of The Forest Fire

It flickered, smoldered, brightly flared—then briefly died,

A spark that lingered, flickering to life once more.

A wisp of smoke began to rise, scarce seen and slight,

Until a careless ember woke the forest floor.

It whispered through the undergrowth, it sought the leaves

That curled and blackened in its heated breath.

The newborn flames took strength and boldly sought the trees,

Growing fierce, relentless in their depth.

Old Jock, out in the lookout, was the first to see the smoke,

And judged the fire small, but still a fire.

Thirty years in forestry—no better man to know

The measure of a blaze from smoke drawn higher.

He radioed the stand-by crews, and urgently they flew,

And forestry phones began to ring amok.

As engines roared and wheels sped, the fire raged and grew,

Now a race against both flame and clock.

Old Tom Williams called his men together swift and fast,

Though some said he’d grown too old and slow.

At fifty-nine, his hair gone white, his strength held steadfast,

Fighting fires long past what most men know.

Proud of his wiry frame that’s seen him through the years,

Few had strength to match the fire in his core.

His old heart feared no flame—no blaze to rouse his fears,

What younger men might learn, Tom’s long outwore.

Through rutted forest roads they sped at breakneck pace,

In dust and smoke that scorched their lungs.

The flames leapt west with greedy, fierce, unholy haste,

While northward, fire licked with starving tongues.

The wind stoked flames in taunting gusts, short yet swift,

As helicopters throbbed above the blaze.

The men below, blackened and scorched, called out and cursed,

Voices hoarse from shouting through the haze.

The flames surged westward, fed by trees and earth alike,

The forest’s strength consumed in fire’s hold.

Pine trees, forty years grown tall, fell hard and cracked

As fire tore a path a dozen miles wide and bold.

With spade in hand, old Tom fought side by side with Jim,

Beating back the fire’s leaping spark.

Smoke-stung tears filled their eyes; the air grew sharp and thin,

And the spades grew hot as coals in dark.

The fire spread through gullies deep, through timber tall,

As bulldozers cut breaks into the earth.

A smoky haze draped skies in reddish, blackened pall,

Choking men below with ash and dirt.

Planes circled ceaselessly above the blaze below,

While helicopters flung their monsoon loads.

Gallons from the sky, they strove to drown the flames below,

To calm a world in burning, choking throes.

Eight days since the first report—men, weary to the bone,

Stumbled home with spirits spent and worn.

Only 'hotspots' smoldered, watched by men who stayed alone,

While their brothers went to rest at dawn.

And Tom Williams, limping home to find his bed,

Wore his boots and coat to his final rest.

His strength now spent, his legacy in ash and death,

A hero gone with courage manifest.

And Jock, up in the lookout, scans horizons far and wide,

Sees the scar where once the pine trees grew.

A blackened wound upon the land where life once thrived,

Nature’s toll—a balance overthrown, askew.

He watches on, unblinking, from his post on high,

Searching for the telltale drift of smoke,

For a careless ember tossed—he wonders, with a sigh,

Who among us now will count the cost?