A tiny office in the Fire Station, <br />remote from all the bustle <br />and the racket of firemen <br />replenishing equipment; <br /> <br />Another noise <br /> <br />The insignificant chatter of a typewriter, <br />cold and uncaring. <br />Processing records of the passing night, <br />oblivious to death and devastation. <br />Simply providing Statistics. <br /> <br />When did the first flicker of predatory flame <br />light upon it’s unsuspecting prey, <br />engulfing, devouring, <br />absorbing energy. <br />And when was it found out? <br /> <br />The typewriter, cold, unmoved, <br />yet moving on the page, <br />at a professional distance, <br />reports in bland officialese. <br /> <br />Room and contents damaged by fire and smoke! <br /> <br />No recognition here of personal loss. <br />A favourite armchair turned to ash, <br />a hard won carpet, <br />carbonised and flat. <br /> <br />The treasured hi-fi, <br />melted in the heat, <br />observed by the blind unseeing eye <br />of a broken television. <br /> <br />Who called for aid <br />Then waited, in mindless, <br />all consuming fear <br />for that blessed relief? <br /> <br />The moment of arrival. <br /> <br />When did those scarlet engines <br />give their braying challenge, <br />and bright blue eyes <br />circling relentlessly; <br />Seek out their foe. <br /> <br />While heroes in shiny helmets <br />engage in a wild efficient chaos of action. <br />Till smoke is steam, <br />the crackle, the scream, <br />and sounds of shattering glass are stilled. <br /> <br />More heart stopping yet, the child’s doll, <br />melted, broken on the floor, <br />while perfect face, <br />and lovely sightless eyes <br /> <br />contemplate a ravaged ceiling.<br /><br />Thomas Vaughan Jones<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-fire-report/
