In the fire scarred, mist softened hills we stop
for hot milk and meat pies, shelter from rain.
A man considers the rolls that remain,
reflective bands on the sleeves of his top.
His uniform draws the attention
of my two girls. “Fireman? Police?” they ask.
“Paramedic,” I say, as he walks past.
The girls regard him with apprehension.
He cradles a large sized bottle of coke.
“Somebody crashed in the rain,” says Fred.
Una says, “Somebody’s dying, or dead.”
But girls, he’s mostly a normal bloke
getting lunch and a drink like us, just the same,
and the rain is the rain. Just the rain. Just the rain.