The Innisfree Poetry Journal

by Martin Dickinson


First you take one rounded stone.
Beside it you place one more
and another until they make a circle.
This is your chimney.

Scouring for dead branches
your hands black with decayed bark
you snap twigs for kindling
leverage a branch on a dusty
rock and step on—its crack
rings through the woods.

Flames are spirits. They grow
with the aroma of smoke
as it bends and rises. Their glow
lights the forest’s underside.

Your fire occupies space and time.
Warm inside your bag, you imagine
this scene through the eyes of a Celtic
ancestor. Your spirit feels
at home as you gaze after sparks
disappearing upward into darkness.

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