My Bonfire

Burning, flaming, blazing, glowing fire.
You truly are my pyrotechnic desire!
I’ll destroy the waste and burn the wood;
pile it all high and make it good.

I crouch to light the fire with flickering match in hand,
Then stub this out again a nearby patch of sand.
I watch intently as the infant flames insinuate the pile
and then penetrate the centre with growing strength and guile.

By the time the evening comes, the flames begin to tire.
Time perhaps to call it a day and quench the faltering fire.
The stack begins to crumble, exuding a steady glow,
betraying a fearsome heat in the cindered remains below.

In the growing twilight I examine the swirl of ash.
My fire is dying away now, unlike it’s early panache.
The burning is all but over; the ground below baked dry,
and I see one last thread of smoke curling gently to the sky.