Poetry can be inspired by anything, a light, a sound, a whisper on the wind, like a flame to dry grass, ideas can be set ablaze.
Looking through all the old pictures I have of the Gorge and remembering how pretty it was before the fires ripped through has left me at the same time sad and hopeful. Hopeful for a revival and renewal. Something better than before
The sun shines down, bright and hot,
And turns the river gold.
It starts a spark,
And flames soon lick the air.
Golden waters turn deep orange,
As the flame grows big and thick.
The sun still shines unmercifully,
Lending no relief.
If the forest once was silent,
It now cries for a savior,
For someone to come along.
To cool the raging heat.
When the fire dies down to a stop,
The damage is apparent.
Burnt trees and bushes lie on the ground,
Weary from the prior flame.
Still, there is some good to come,
From this awful thing.
From Underneath the ashes
A tiny green plant springs from the ground and up to the sky.