They struggled on, these warriors with the water,
Sweating, soot-stained, slogging through the bush, 
Giving ground grudgingly,
Yard by yard, building by building,
 
But the photographs are gone.

The homes were fought for, some lost, some saved,
Strange, flukey whims of flame took most,
But some remained to mock the warriors,
These city men, who were called to save the day,

But the photographs are gone.

They've done their best and stunned with fatigue
They rest and eat and sleep.
Now the survivors return, hoping and not daring to hope.
What will remain? What is left of their lives? 
Some have only holes in the ground and chimneys,
Still they vow to rebuild,

But the photographs are gone.

Claims will pay, rebuilding will start, things can be replaced,
Walls painted, necessities bought, there is still hope.
Neighbours pitch in, to feed and clothe the losers,
Help and comfort comes from all the land,
Love and prayers sent from everywhere,
They can start again, there is a future,

But the photographs are gone.

Will they remember how their parents looked? 
Is memory enough for the swift passing of childhood?
Are wedding days indelible? 
Vacations etched in stone? 
All the history of families gone to the red, roaring beast
That was the fire. 
Past destroyed, blacked out,

And the photographs are gone.

 
"My God," she said. "I could stand about anything.
We can buy furniture, we can get clothes. Kitchen stuff
and household tools are available.
Paint and wood and bedclothes and rugs and all that stuff
We can get again. We have hope for the future, 
We and our close ones are alive, vital, we won't let the fire whip us.
But the worst thing is, irreplaceable, heartbreaking,

The photographs are gone."

"The Storm" displayed with the permission of the author Jerry Riches
- Posted Friday, January 02, 2004.

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