The fire was built in
the embers of song
thrush, the tilt
of stars and
overflowing April
moon.
Smoke and darkness,
left out somehow
from the image of
fire’s mystery, its
coming and going,
killing and scaling,
of landscapes,
smoke can also
mean hurt.
A curly-headed mass
of hair reveals
pan-pipes, a swooning
tune of a young
man, brought here
to judge the pull of
the people.
I confess I bow,
mostly, to the
call of the tawny.
As with fires, as
with light, people
fade into night
and sleep, and caverns
of orange appear
between logs,
chambers of nature’s
tinsel.
A roe deer darkness
is one of atavistic
terror for the city-dweller,
the plodding white tush
in leaf litter.
So I stare into fire and I wonder,
which part of the wood,
will the flames kindle under.
Daniel Greenwood 