A poem, a memory…

On final, there’s the spark! We breathe…

A flickering light of dusty yellow

No road to see

Where the hell are we?

I pray this night I return with you, to silver light…

A crunch, a bang, a banshee cry, relief, a drone to silence

Old Four-wheel drives and bushmen’s hats, searching

And there you are…

The child I’ve come so far…to see

Brave, in pain, regretting the game, fear, your hand… fragments.

A rusted pan to polished chrome many hands lift carefully, reverently,

I look at you, my patient, my charge. A radio echo of searing pain, hours past.

Grime crusts your face, tears track true,

I’m here for you, with you.

Parents asking, no answers yet, a surgeon’s knife. I don’t know…. I just don’t

Smiling, jolly, belying trauma that will live with you, and me, for countless years.

The palpable relief, a flying machine, a miracle and saviour. Ringers stare.

You, me, we’re brothers now in odyssey,

A journey across a deep, Black Sea.

You will sleep now, while I watch your breath, your heart, until taken from me by clamorous noise.

Ewen McPhee

This is a personal reflection on my time covering call for an RFDS base in Western Queensland 32 years ago. The RFDS has not endorsed this narrative. The image above has been taken from a search of pictures with royalty and copyright free conditions; if this is in error, I will remove same.