We were reminiscing about the good old days before plastic when one of my weekly jobs was to burn household rubbish at the bottom of our back yard. I confessed how I was fascinted then by the way books burned – they needed a lot of help. My niece, fabulous writing workshop leader Edwina Shaw, said, ‘That’s a poem.’ And indeed it is:
November verse 13: My Fahrenheit 451
For Edwina
A boy, I loved to watch the pages
curl, turn black then red, ignite.
I'd sit beside the flames for ages
poking while the sparks took flight.
A book is not an easy burner –
someone needs to play page-turner.
Of all the jobs they gave this boy,
the rubbish-burning was his joy
and phone directories delighted.
I know they say that if you start
by burning books, then like a cart
behind a horse, you'll soon be sighted
burning people. It's not true.
At least, I pledge, I'll not burn you.
I have written this blog post on the land of Gadigal and Wangal of the Eora nation. I acknowledge Elders past and present of all those clans, and welcome any First Nations readers.
Me fail? I fly! 