He
sits waiting.
He
wears his face with wonder
whilst
smoking safe under the rowanberry tree.
There’s
no hating;
grey
eyes void of thunder
as
he says his thanks in threes:
one
for creating,
one
for being torn asunder;
allowing
the good part to roam free,
and
now, as he builds a fire
for
the night, he smiles in the knowledge
that
the flames will sway to entertain,
but
the constant glow
will
allows this stranger,
to
finally sleep
in
the present
and
the presence
of
honest warmth.
Tomas Bird - Pear Kindling 2017
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