Tempe Dump

Tempe Dump

I always thought the showdown would be sudden,

Convulsive as a bushfire triple-jumping

A roadway where some idiot Green council

Had forbidden the felling of gum trees,

And so, with no firebreaks to check its course,

The fire rides on like the army of Attila

To look for houses where the English Garden

Is banned, and there is only the Australian garden,

With eucalypts that overhang the eaves

And shed bark to ensure the racing flames

Will send the place up like a napalm strike.

Instead, it’s Tempe Dump. When we were small

My gang went there exploring. Piston rings

Lay round in heaps, shiny among the junk

Which didn’t shine at all, just gave forth wisps

Of smoke. The dump was smouldering underneath

But had no end in view. This is the fire

Within me, though I harbour noble thoughts

Of forests under phosphorous attack

And in an hour left black, in fields of ash—

Not this long meltdown with its leaking heat,

Its drips of acid, pools of alkali:

This slow burn of what should be finished with

But waits for the clean sweep that never comes.

Clive James