Poetry: Smoke and darkness







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

fireโ€™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 natureโ€™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.








Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s