Grasping for direction

I piled the wheelbarrow full to the brim with the bits and bobs I'd manage to save, my eyes filled with black sooty tears, the rain that never had appeared. My right hand swathed in a makeshift bandage. Streaked on the palm with tiger stripes. mottled on the back like leopard skin
At that moment it hit me, a spirit rose: the Phoenix from the egg, it hatched. Born with thunder in its eyes
My station waggon still smouldering, cremated, if it had been a dog, so reliable and faithful. a eulogy in tribute, would have been the requisite compliment.
I looked towards the west to see the sun clouded in a smoky haze . my chimney stack in nakedness, before I had seen the hearth, the end of the column of bricks above the roof line
It stood like me, lone figures that survived.  A  wave on nostalgia like thumbing through old photo's
Lying in the bottom of the wheelbarrow,  the family bible after being hurtled through the lounge window. I had rescued an old carried bag blowing around to wrap and protect it.
. Where I ask is the parable, the parable to help?
Was I the parable the unburnt bush. Gods words I have seen your distress. go now to Egypt,
faith that has been shaken scorched like a bandaged hand.
Just the wheelbarrow would be my station waggon now, I the traveller, touched down and landed in a new country with no return ticket
I winced as I grasped the wheelbarrows handles, and headed on down the ash strewn road. and started humming " Guide me o thou great redeemer"