It’s Friday night.
The fire-lighter’s back.
It’s late.
He’s had a drink.
With the skill of a god
he makes new life in the grate.
She’s asleep, perhaps,
in the tie-me-down bed
but she sparks when the cap
of his boot strikes the stair.
She scents his smoky finger-pads,
his malted breath
and that other child
who lives inside
ignites; flies to the woods
her feet enflamed.
in response to Steven Bayley’s composition Fire
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Copyright © 2013, Hilary Hares