The Mound

 

It started way back when I was a child

One cold November night in sixty-four

Old furniture and windfall from the trees

Piled high into a mound of combustibles

 

Each year new kindling was added to ashes

That had smudged the verdant back garden lawn

Layer upon layer added to the blackened hill

That was gradually growing towards the sky

 

One year I lost my childhood friend the bear

My mother and I wiped away a silent tear

As his golden body exploded into golden stars

That soared and fell upon our hooded eyes

 

The black pile spread like a cancerous sore

Grown uncontrollable through feeding fire

With anything that needed getting rid of

Accumulated in the house over the year

 

At last my father said the eyesore had to go

And we set about the mound with shovel and spade

Digging down the layers of charred and half burnt

Papers, chair legs, fence panelling and more

 

Until we finally flattened out the hill

Piled the rotted, damp black mess into plastic bags

This was to be the end of winter bonfires

Now that we had all grown beyond their charm

 

And at the very end, whilst raking flat

The remnants of a history of wonder

I saw the orange glass eyes staring from the earth

And heard the ghost growl of my long dead friend