No sunset flares    breathless and photogenic
in the skies over Silverdale
as we light our little fire amongst the sheep and pebbles.

Nothing but these few flames to dare the dark
gathering, oozing velvet from every rocky pore,
caressing the shadows
fluttering mothly where the firelight fails.

Few would share our vigil
lost in a blaze to which we feed
our driftwood dreams, our precious pasts,
in fire to purge ourselves of fear or false regret.
Dry and tear-damp  – crack –  in fragments burst
and burn, or shower their sad sparks skyward
with a little sigh
– hot ashes scattered by a west wind.

Nothing to dare the dark ….
but silver in the shallows
and high stars trembling

and the mercury constellations of the bay
map flights of fancy beyond Heysham Head.


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