Something is burning inside me;
you could call it my heart
but it's much more precise than that, it's a bonfire;
crackling sticks of shy words.
Crossing the country last week,
I saw them,
jumbled up heaps of poems
rioting bundles of wood,
alone in October-dry fields.
Tonight, sitting here,
with only you in my eyes,
dazed by the intense glare, I devise
a scheme to link bonfires across the land,
to burn down the walls between our hands,
if only to set your face alight,
if only to see one Guy Fawkes Day
your dreamy children smile.
Posted by keith armstrong at 7:24 pm