Burning

 
This is a spare month.
Bare winter beginning.
Often the easterly cuts to the quick.

A tumble of birds
toss patterns over the marsh.
Wild music in the sky.

The tower bells clash
and his eyes stream.
February drives him in.

Home from the field,
he banks the fire,
stretche his feet

right over the flames.
Consumed by the red, by the yellow,
the falling log, the gathered ash,

aware (but barely) of the crash, the spit,
he tricks himself into the child
and hears his mother angry.

A terrible thing,
She’s as angry as the bloody morning,
or, inside his skin, the frozen sea.
 

 

 

Sally Festing, from Font Small Press Publishing, 2016.  See Sally’s website for more information: http://www.sallyfesting.info/

Note: Sally  Festing will be reading at Cafe Writers with Jack Underwood on 13th March.