The stories keep coming out. Children die from horrific burns, unable to be saved. More families incinerated, loved ones lost, parents burying children, vice versa.
We are all Kinglake, Marysville, Flowerdale now. There is a burnt scar that will sit in all of us forever, like a line in bark or rock indicating a time of trauma that changed everything. It is being formed still, with each new story, an ongoing wounding.
And I know it is nothing on what thousands will feel who are so much more directly affected. My countrymen, I'm sorry, it's so awful and you are so brave.
A pub poem - My chip has fallen to the floor. The bar is crowded. I look down. *Sehnsucht*. A lawless longing for The unattainable. I frown.
18 hours ago