Fire fills a skirt of grass
To keep itself warm
As evil looking clouds pass
By bringing up a storm.

I’m burning off a pile
Of dry, old garden scraps
I’ve stored up for a while,
A year or two perhaps,

Standing here with the hose,
Keeping things in control,
Relying, if this fails, on those
Clouds to play the role

Of villain in the wings,
A black hat and black heart,
The vampire with his fangs
Out for a bit of skirt,

In case the fire breaks free
And sets my house alight,
Bungalow in between
Bungalows left and right

In a world full of nice
Neighbours and homely scenes,
Where the old anger tries
Not to say what it means.

.

Here I am writing about a back yard fire I lit while the storm clouds were approaching. I chose that moment to ensure I kept control of the fire as there was a lot of dead grass and it could easily have got away from me. Such moments always operate like metaphors. Current edit: 26 August 2015