A poem, thinking of flames
From a Coast
by Christopher Walsh, 2/19/2023-3/15/2023
A night, a beach, a fire:
We pull in from larger to smaller to you.
The sky and the surf-roar enfold you, while
The fire warms.
Flames, reshaping the wood and the air,
Eating into each knot, into each log which used to be alive,
Brushing the folds of the wind pushing in,
As smoke and sparks fly into the bigness
Surrounding you.
The fire-noise is alongside the surf noise,
Somehow not competing with it:
Neither is drowned out, but
Not much other noise comes through.
Not of ships at sea, not of cars on nearby roads, not of animals.
Just you and your companions, near to warmth.
It’s late. Or, rather, it feels
Both late and not-late,
Like time were suspended.
As if the sun had hid and stopped.
Fire sets its own pace.
You built, for now, a way
To be cozy on the edge of what is huge and cold.
Oceans, of course, shape the weather, and
Carve the very shore where you are,
But, for a time, your fire,
Small - it had better be small,
Too large a fire would be scary
- holds that cold back.
A fire, a beach, a night:
For you to make
As warm as you need.
© Christopher Walsh, 2023. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Christopher Walsh (chris_walsh) with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
by Christopher Walsh, 2/19/2023-3/15/2023
A night, a beach, a fire:
We pull in from larger to smaller to you.
The sky and the surf-roar enfold you, while
The fire warms.
Flames, reshaping the wood and the air,
Eating into each knot, into each log which used to be alive,
Brushing the folds of the wind pushing in,
As smoke and sparks fly into the bigness
Surrounding you.
The fire-noise is alongside the surf noise,
Somehow not competing with it:
Neither is drowned out, but
Not much other noise comes through.
Not of ships at sea, not of cars on nearby roads, not of animals.
Just you and your companions, near to warmth.
It’s late. Or, rather, it feels
Both late and not-late,
Like time were suspended.
As if the sun had hid and stopped.
Fire sets its own pace.
You built, for now, a way
To be cozy on the edge of what is huge and cold.
Oceans, of course, shape the weather, and
Carve the very shore where you are,
But, for a time, your fire,
Small - it had better be small,
Too large a fire would be scary
- holds that cold back.
A fire, a beach, a night:
For you to make
As warm as you need.
© Christopher Walsh, 2023. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Christopher Walsh (chris_walsh) with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.