I trudge towards the spinning line,
Feet soaked by morning dew
Each grass blade glistens and shines,
Poking through the once-brown yard.
Clouds gather and blue turns grey with hope.
Orange skies no longer choked by smoke.
But it’s only March and we’re breathless again.
A new enemy crouches.
But instead of fighting fires
We’re retreating in the shadows.
Till he scampers off,
And brown turns to green once more.
Poem by Ali Leader, Sydney, Australia