I’ve seen the fire that runs the hills
at night, a mystery light that paints
the sky alive. Its eerie flames slash
bright across a line of sight and die
an instant death too brief to take in
hand – gloom reclaims the land and
crouching hills again but etched by
powers arcane it stays portrayed in
muted shades within our eyes for
endless days – a stark relief outlined
against a fragile sky in nascent blue,
solidity combined with subtlety our
living words will try to say but fail to
do. A jealous dawn replays the scene
in slower time, recidivists rejoice,
delighted in the rising sun that stays
unease – they snore again at peace
within sustained (and tamed) reality.
© 23 October 2007, I. D. Carswell
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