Simon Thomas
Fire Over Whitethroat
Still no-one leaves.
Fire-mesmerised, disastered.
Fields burn down.
Out of darkness
brittle neurotic fireworks
scream and blister;
instincts spin
to circle danger
behind the torches of grass
and yesterday, when heat was heathaze
thick like smoke.
Backgrounds of matches, glass.
Like rivers, we did not see
the heat would die
the time will come
when we would question motives.
Life was fun.
No-one sees our hearts
will gut these fields to ash, catharsis.
No-one thinks
to start again,
not now, not yet, not ever, knowing
light will age, and hurt us.
Brook no water
where tomorrow burns.
Page(s) 136
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