Burning Brush
Leaning on a shovel and a rake
leaning into one another
watching the fire
burn through rotten tree trunks
dry dead branches
Flames flick fingers of red-orange light
into flat black sky
snow sizzles
balsam branches crackle
like fat on a hot skillet
orange spark worms
float up
fizzle out
sweet smell of innocent smoke
teases around us
Thrusting our picaroons into charred logs
we pull ends
into the white heat of the centre
We could be two hundred years old
By Sharon Irvine
From the book Core Samples to be published this spring.
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