Somehow, this time it’s different.
The fire is made and waiting,
And in a sudden dusk hush
Of absolute stillness,
It is time.

I call the winds silently
From where I am, sitting on the step.
Exactly
Where I am.

Then light the fire.
The paper flares. Will the kindling catch?
I watch it with detachment.
It will, or it will not.

It flames up one side,
Dancing and shimmering –
Will the whole thing join?

It will, or it will not.

And as I watch,
It drops gloriously into the centre,
Taking me with it,
As the fire takes hold from the inside out,
And roars its song to the universe.

Then breathes
In steady spreading

Before falling to ember.

One stick,
A lizard, black against red,
Held aloof.
The flames start to lick
Up and down its back,
Licking my spine,
Consuming.
Will these flames be enough?
They will, or they will not.

After an age
The lizard drops
with a sigh.
The fire is done.

And in the morning,
The lizard stick
has turned entirely to ash,
Just visible still, for a moment
In silvery outline.

Songs of Fulfilment, February 2026