Summer Classroom

The year a bushfire turned the swamp to charcoal
townspeople battled with buckets.
Scorched grass stretched below the thunder
of a firestorm at midday.
My sister and I beat out small fires at the edge
until ordered home to safety.

That year we learned to play tennis on the court,
to score: one love, two love;
with our child-size wooden racquets pleased
to swing arms, hit the ball
bouncing into hot summer afternoons
from taut nylon strings.

Night plunged down quickly as the sun dipped
on the last ball played
and the river blazed as sunset sculpted every ripple
before we stowed the net.
The lessons of that summer we thought a game;
but the only rule of fire is flame.

Lynette M. Arden

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and her web site: Lynette Arden Poetry and Art