Wednesday, 18 May 2016

A Poem-a-Day 2016/58

It doesn't matter you didn't love me
I have the fire for warmth,
the dog for company.
Crackling wood becomes my conversation partner;
old tales of foxes and faeries,
deep within the green canopy.
Is this beech or oak?
I'm too lazy to get up and check.
I only know it's not the distinctive bark
of birch or cherry,
or the reluctant flame of Elder,
though the green flame indicates copper
a nail in the embers
or the flare of boiling blood
from the shirt you were wearing
when you asked for a divorce.
At least the pyre is hot
and your bones burn hotter.

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