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Giles Goodland

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Ash

I walk the in-law’s dogs towards sunset
for a view of the sea, up the valley
I always follow, a few acres
of scrub reaching to the top where
it turns into a warehouse-land of old
train-tracks and sliproads leading to
fenced-off depots; no-one’s here this time
of the evening, except today I notice
these firemen standing on their engine,
quietly aiming their hose away from what
must have been a minor fire, and the wind’s
blowing the water back as a fine mist
between me and the sun dissolving
over sea. The mist has this chatoyance
that holds me, each colour delicious
and brief, air reverberating round it.
All this time the dogs are panting by
my legs, I can’t even see where the fire
was, the car-lights are just coming on,
and eventually I have to do what
the dogs are asking. I start to turn away,
telling myself it’s only some kind
of warehouse. Soon the hose will be turned off.
Except, I don’t want to go. Not feeling
that I might miss something, but being
the only bystander, and fires needing
bystanders like a tree falling in a wood
needs a witness, I stay until there’s
no more sun and the mist reverts
to shadow. Just water. And it’s turning cold.

 

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