(untitled)

In Shropshire a house burns.
An orange glow and an oppressive cloud rise, crackling,
Breaking the dark silence of the night.
Mountains cower along the edges, black with grief,
Wondering how they will ever remain,
Ever go on, ever stand, ever be when ash alone remains.
This little house, thatched roof and stone walls,
Taught these giants stories of men: how to laugh
When to cry, who to love, how to die.
Who better knew the poetry of the hedgerow
And the song of the sparrow confident in the bright warmth of her
Brick hearth. Burning.
Here the ancient hills heard the babe and comforted the boy,
Found the man and nourished his body; fed his soul
And filled his board and blaze.
But in the firelight, rising and falling, all seems lost.
Ash falls from the sky like bits of crooked snows,
And somewhere deep beneath the mountain shadows
The man watches the blaze, his eyes dark with loss,
But made bright by memories,
Banking like fallen vesuvian dreams,
And brimming with joy.