I hope they weren’t shy those teens taken on the dusty Red Cliffs road from behind; I hope they’d just been secreted in the vines and had unbuttoned tops and teased the budded nipples there and tasted wine. I hope they had their senses filled with life in eighteenth birthday marquees before this dark evening when the road pulled them like night butterflies to shimmer in blind groups where no one should have been. There are no words to speak of the driver whose own poor children sat uncomprehending in their car seats and watched the teenagers, themselves still children, die. The death of children, those dead and those dying living on is the death of everything. The world grows cold at this and cracks and no balm will ever bring it back. I have no thought for him but of the teens I wonder did they taste it all in those mad years when their bodies sprouted hairs? I hope they stood on the roofs of cars yelling and pointing with lifted shirts and believed they were invincible. I hope they fell in love like madmen in the Mildura sun and swam the Murray when they should have been at school or snuck out and drove some old HQ paddock bomb all night and threw their empty stubbies at the star spanked sky.