The Fire Report Poem by Thomas Vaughan Jones

A tiny office in the Fire Station,
remote from all the bustle
and the racket of firemen
replenishing equipment;

Another noise

The insignificant chatter of a typewriter,
cold and uncaring.
Processing records of the passing night,
oblivious to death and devastation.
Simply providing Statistics.

When did the first flicker of predatory flame
light upon it’s unsuspecting prey,
engulfing, devouring,
absorbing energy.
And when was it found out?

The typewriter, cold, unmoved,
yet moving on the page,
at a professional distance,
reports in bland officialese.

Room and contents damaged by fire and smoke!

No recognition here of personal loss.
A favourite armchair turned to ash,
a hard won carpet,
carbonised and flat.

The treasured hi-fi,
melted in the heat,
observed by the blind unseeing eye
of a broken television.

Who called for aid
Then waited, in mindless,
all consuming fear
for that blessed relief?

The moment of arrival.

When did those scarlet engines
give their braying challenge,
and bright blue eyes
circling relentlessly;
Seek out their foe.

While heroes in shiny helmets
engage in a wild efficient chaos of action.
Till smoke is steam,
the crackle, the scream,
and sounds of shattering glass are stilled.

More heart stopping yet, the child’s doll,
melted, broken on the floor,
while perfect face,
and lovely sightless eyes

contemplate a ravaged ceiling.