I‘m burning apple boughs at evensong.
While still shrill blackbirds linger, the path’s flagstones -
by turns - become first chapter and then verse.
My bonfire keeps the day’s half-light alive;
the sweet twigs placed so they’re not blown off course.
Its glowing core is kiln of afterthought.
In the smoke, a ritual of remembering:
how, once a year, we went with chastened hearts
and smudged foreheads, smouldering to school.
The mark of otherness unrecognised,
until – in the nearest glass – we washed it
from our skin, to sidestep explanation.
When flames die down, the bark cast off rekindles
what has lapsed. I hear a sizzle of held sap
and watch the embers slowly choke on ash.
x. 2018
