the Bonfire

 

It would be at the back end of summer.

A dry spell, with luck,

before the chore of timetables pressed in.

 

And long before we thought

to worry about emissions.

Nobody had a carbon footprint then.

 

To be fair, he would wait

until late afternoon. Time enough

for neighbours to have their washing in.

 

Dad was not a man for compost.

 

Heedless of their nature, all arisings

got higgledy-piggledy piled

on a heap. Some years, two.

 

mown grass

weeds     hedge clippings

spent blooms     fallen fruit      

tired tomato stems

pruned twigs     deadwood branches

raked-up leaves     dug-out roots

 

Wheelie bin collection not yet a thing.

 

Out of this raw material

we would fashion a chest-high pyre,

ramshackle but well-balanced.

 

Laid with care, unaided by firelighters.

 

From a scrunched-up newspaper base

upwards the kindling grew.

We kept the green stuff to one side

 

speculated on effigies,

which Orangeman or Tory grandee

might deserve to burn.

 

Talked about the new school year. Mine, not his.

 

Lighting-up time: we’d fetch matches,

blow whole lungfuls of air

into the hesitant, firefly heart

 

and dance half-blind around the smoke.

When flames took hold, finding what else we could

to feed a blazing mouth.

 

old cardboard boxes

rotten fencing

broken furniture

 

Each armful magnified its hunger.

 

Overnight, we’d damp the core with grassy sods,

let acrid billows fill the sky.

Look for embers glowing still next morning.

 

vii. 2026

Don’t leave your baguette upside-down on the table

The fridge is talking. Must be to me – I’m the only human left awake. Its intermittent gurgle is not stopped by sticking my elbows out or fixing it with a hard stare.

 

Neither can Google Translate decipher what it says. The lizards in our courtyard speak a common tongue but they’re all quiet now. Fully frozen silent.

 

Rain seeps through the walls, soaks that faux Persian rug. My assignment due tomorrow. This is so not fair.

 

A homeless ape without a name howls from the roof next door. Dressed in torn loincloth, he scorns the notion of drought.

 

Your red necktie chokes blood flow to the brain by 7.5 percent. I search for an empty pack of fags to show examiners what kind of torment I am going through. 

 

viii. 2026 

Vespers

On this page, blue as a jay’s wing,

some wisp-edged cirrus merge

to orange underbelly, glowing

 

then disband to drift away.

Only the axe of unclothed heat

stays throughout our longest day.

 

Sweat prickles my forearm,

the grass is weasel-brown.

Yet oaks are green, their silent hurt unseen.

 

The glap-glap lapping of a pool:

a lizard at its brink,

flicks an uncool tongue.

 

Hanging like a kiss on the horizon,

the lantern of Venus

hours before dusk prevails.

 

Listen. Stone curlew wail

in darkening distance.

We lie down on our backs, look up

 

watch a lemon slice rise and fall,

seek Cassiopeia’s seat

in a bowl of untainted night.

 

vii. 2026