After all these years
knowing little else
in my clickaswitch life
of the previous centuries
and their homemade light
let there be a lesson
on the end
of this ice-pick evening
there is still the knife-flick
of suspense, catching
the breath as it turns:
inward to out, head held over
ember like a full-fat moon
tickling a forest of kindling
the newspaper tinder:
Image: a blitzed Yemen,
the torn head of a yellow lion
and written in blue Helvetica,
Bijou river views,
reduced to 700k
we're not reading anymore
so now blow slow
coax out the fire song
containing no word, no tune,
just the gentle rush
of things coming together
the gang tower over, shuffling
in their boots, like tall ash
in strong winds, striking
loose jokes: is it getting hot out here?
what are you whispering?
viewed from their great height
scrutinising this small fire
growing into the village
spread gently across the land
the flame lifts off
the wood lets the light in
catching on thorn and bristle,
and when it really takes off
and I mean really,
the rush and snap, inhaling
like a newborn
with baby's first breath.
Our faces are lit,
haunted, red
