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! 
Haha Jonathan, I remember those days. Love your poem. I particularly like the lines “A book is not an easy burner – / someone needs to play page-turner”.
And I’m very glad about the end!
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Thank you, Sue. I confess I was pleased with those lines myself!
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Haha! Well that turned out well! And I’m very glad it was only phone books!
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I couldn’t swear that it was only phone books but that’s my story and I don’t think there will be other witnesses to contradict it
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‘Burning off’ was my father’s favourite job as well. Your poem brought a very clear image of dad standing at the incinerator in the backyard, poking at it long after the fire had died down.
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I’m glad it wasn’t just my family, Kathy. Though we didn’t have an incinerator, just a bare patch of ground at the bottom of the yard, tucked between the hedge and the bow paddock
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Ooh! We were very fancy then. We had a nasty grey besser block incinerator that dominated the back yard. Just it and some discouraged grass.
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Luxury!
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