1969 -
A log subsides; an ember spits and flies
to fall between the cliff-rims of the slates
that square the hearth’s flat no-man’s-land. And so?
Nothing will catch - for what could fire bite
in sandwiched slabs of concrete, grout and stone? -
and starved combustion withers to a smut,
a crumb of black on grey. What was this ember?
Was its essence fuel or flame? Both gone,
it’s dull, dry, meagre - were it to be crushed
with holy oil within my palm’s lined cup,
its ritual ash might just extend to dot
the plaintive symbol of a faint full stop.
Each spark’s a fresh and perky invitation
to fire’s heat - and yet it scarcely bides
then leaches off to anonymity,
adds its near-nothing to the cosmic background.
O ember in your crust of night-sky black,
spent glimmer, squandered instant, may you hold
within yourself that lingering core of warmth
for just a moment, cosset it, conceal
its locus from the levelling universe.
