The Last

The fire has burned low. Smoke rises into the night sky, Shifting and swirling, Dancing in the night breeze, Bringing to Heaven, The smells of down below. Flames still lick at branches, Carefully, not feasting like before, Coveting their final morsels. The branches are stirred, The flames leap in delight, Dancing visions of light, Joyful and bright. The fire sends sparks, Flying high into the sky, Ever they rise, burning bright, Casting their glow into the night, Knowing that they will die. The embers lie below, Glowing orange, Changing colours, Clinking with their voices. Dreamlike they seem, Always changing, But, the last to be seen.