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
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