I know Sarah is feeling a similar angst. It's a difficult separation of art and reality.
This poem was prompted by a fire in Cape Town during my last year in Uni. It burnt hectares of fynbos which needs controlled burns to regenerate and maintain a plant population. We got taken up to one of the burn sites by our biology lecturer to do some course work on the hill.
Fire on the hill.
Wind-fanned flames crest the ridge
Sparks float higher, trailing light through the dark
With bated breath we watch as few animals flee
Ahead of the heat, racing into the wilderness of suburbia
Caught up in the inferno,
Smaller creatures succumb to the blistering heat.
Towering trees topple, shrubs burn to the ground,
The gun-shot sound of exploding trees echoes
Above the stage-whispering of the flames.
Later that month, we walk the ridge
Tripping through the bone white ash,
Investigating the need for controlled fires
Amongst the debris of tree and shrub,
Tiny shoots nestle close to the fragile skeleton of a too-slow mouse.
A great take on the theme and a wonderful poem inspired from an interesting memory. Your words paint a picture and pricked my senses with the sound of crackling fire described and the smell imagined.. And then the new life coming through next to a reminder of a life now departed. Thank you for participating. I have just read Lien's post, which she linked up with today, and am feeling more able to write about a memory of my own now. Sarah xxxReplyDelete