I don’t want it to be normal:
To sit and cry among the charred and burnt-out wreckage of my home.
Or to feel guilty that my house survived, when theirs is on the ground.

I don’t want it to be normal to have our town reduced to this,
To tend our trade under a tarp
Because our shops were burnt to crisp.
The beautiful old buildings that have stood for a hundred years.
They stood for things enduring; we mourn them with our tears.

I don’t want it to be normal to shelter on the beach,
With sky all red with fire and fear.
Is Armageddon worse than this?

I don’t want it to be normal to see my topsoil drift away.
I need it for my farming, for growing crops and hay.

And I don’t want it to be normal – feeding stock just on and on,
And praying for the rain to come; this has gone on way too long.
And sadly, I’m remembering the stock
That did not survive the fire storm.

But they seem to want to tell us
To expect this sad new norm.

How did it come to this?