The story goes around the fire
as embers die, accounts revived
of how, relived, past characters
take central stage, communal play.
We cast them, shadows, yesterday,
our prophets, seers, old grandma’s talk
of how we walked beside the crops,
loaned fields, our stock, and nature’s gifts.
But strangers came and stirred the bed,
the sediments long laid to rest,
that young and old were poor as mix,
ambition lost by that achieved
in former days of worn out phase,
and should we not take higher place,
respect, excuse for elder ways;
so take up arms, promote ourselves?
The exact moment marked its space
as he said war to youth best placed;
we raised our arms and voted guns;
swopped the embers, brighter flames,
exchanged fire chatter, chattered fire,
left wizened faces, faced full on
our call, boy soldiers, brave new world.
I often think about the fire.
Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including Poetry Potion.
His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com/