Autumn Fire
It began twelve months ago,
Twelve months before today.
Clearing out the shearing shed,
Seeking things to throw away.
The chip board panels, old speakers,
And chairs made the pile high.
The pile to burn grew twenty foot up,
Quickly reaching toward the sky.
The months grew the pile more,
With dead branches and blackberry brambles.
There was no engineering going on,
The pile, a broken, arthritic sort of shambles.
And then the night, the soaking ground
Made a beautiful footed muddy sludge.
And thirty odd people turned up for the
Annual farm’s bonfire musical dancing trudge.
The dogs and sheep, they loved the sight,
Flames burning the clouds away.
Flames ripped and tore, destroyed and ate all night,
A purely majestic, hypnotic sort of display.
By morning light tree stumps still fought,
Being killed in a slow assassination.
And now I’m cleaning out the other shed,
For next year’s incineration.
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