A curtain drawn across the Sunday sky
North of the town; a storm that brings no rain
As after weeks of cloudless, breathless dry
The Forest flares in fire once again.
A winter’s-worth of fuel stacked up there:
The brittle sticks of heather, long-dead grass.
A cigarette flipped from a car somewhere;
The sun caught in a shard of shattered glass
And hell breaks loose. As wind-whipped flames take hold
And cursing crews watch fifty acres burn
The hills sleep, sure that to tomorrow’s cold
And blackened aftermath, life will return.
Now I must set my tinder heart ablaze –
To clear the ground for shoots of better days.
Inspired by real events on our walk yesterday afternoon.