It was hiding itself amongst wet flannel leaves

given up by the ghost of the earlier year - a challenge I was willing to take,

the incinerator

like a dustbin with holes.

Last week I had burned free offers

lurid lies and half promises

all crated in with a stick

despatched with a match or two.

 

Now it was different.

Old skeletons of cuttings stuck straight up

hard pruned to brace the black interior.

It wouldn't have the match, even with paper,

became bored, smouldered and puffed

in its argumentative way,

but I stood my ground in multiple fleeces,

pull down hat (without bobble)

 

added paraffin for quick release

re-arranged the feast for the lick of penetration

like death revived until

a thin white smoke ascended.

Skirting the chimney blast,

I took on old rotting planks with stunted nail ends;

questioning my motives for storing them over years

to hack at them,

bag them,

dry them in the shed.

 

My wife stayed out of the fray,

visiting an aunt, out all day.

I gave her just the scant facts

without the details of sweat,

dirt, smell on the fleece.

She settled to late afternoon telly.

An inquest was not requested

not on this late November day.