A song by Brian Bell©Brian Bell 2000
Like flies, lately ventured too close to a barbecue plate,
they find their way back along the line. Stunned, resentful,
yet grateful, they lick their wounds as best they can.
Like bullants, receptors ready to respond at any time,
they haul heavy equipment down ladders, disassemble wreckage
to expose the injured. They stop to give small comforts
when able, then get on with their tasteless job.
Like angels, they tend wounds, latest methods carefully
drilled, minds somehow detached from tragedy's reality.
Bodies will have to wait till later, bodies everybody
wishes were not there.
Like vultures, their helicopters hover, cameras covering
every possible angle. They conquer all barricades - insist
they're just doing their job, collecting the news.
Like mother hens, they set up road blocks, ensure people follow
strict rules, inflict their strange normality on the scene.
They supply expert supervision, way beyond the call of duty.
Like lions, they feed on publicity, make apologies, promise
approriate inquisitions. Occasionally, a corner of their eye
looks to see if voters are taking notice.
Like expectant fathers, they pace wherever they can, unsure
outcome losing confidence as time slowly drifts to certainty.
They hope against hope to see their loved ones again.
Like Granville, Glenbrook now waits to become a softer spot
in our history, even as budding roses wait to have their day,
join the healing power of other roses
cast annually on uncaring, waiting tracks.
Written on the night of the Glenbrook NSW train smash, published in the Blue Mountain Gazette 19 January 2000.