4

The old man knelt at the grate
Lancing the knuckles of grey wood
With a poker. Light flashed, a jaw
Of flame rose to the hearth brick,
Writhing, smouldered and withdrew.
Cinders fell into the child's hand.
Faggots broke with a roar inwards
And light bloomed in the wreckage.

The light is child of the fire
And is not the fire, the man said.
Light is ghost of what we don't see.
Fire is the death of wood,
And it is an ancient, starred thing
And it is slow. You see? And he
Passed his hand wholly through.

Over the limbs of the starlit trees
Under the hill, a colourful wind blew.