The day dragged fires from east to west all along the sky, but

Left an ember along the way.

It was in a garden,

 

Small and bright in its tin cove.

Hidden and brought up fanciful. Shining sultry

Shimmers all along fences and the faces of a warm family.

 

Tempting giggles from the children,

Cajoling the father for more branches, and

Teasing the mother for another glass of wine.

 

There I stood in a carpark smoking,

ash around me, flicked and flakey

formed to a fine dust on my jeans and skin.

 

Does ash look to burning turf and think the same?

Does it smell the warmth above it and remember when

it too held the glowing heat inside itself?

 

Envy is not a deniable feeling; it is fair.

Bonfires are for those that have the fuel,

I only had enough for a cigarette.

 

It all smells the same to me.