Another poem about Sandyhills & another of the old & interesting places you can find round these parts. We call it Barnhourie Hall but that's probably not its name. It's hidden in ferns at the back of a golf course & is obviously pretty old & been deserted for centuries. Ideal for late night fires then.

FIRE AFTER MIDNIGHT
for Tony Barbour

Long after midnight, we stride through
Wet ferns & chest-high bracken to
Barnhourie Hall, old newspapers in bags,
Thinking of kindling, fire on our minds.
We gather banks of branch, silently
Going about business far older than us for an hour, 
Stacking, piling, artfully laying
Stick upon branch upon moss-soft bower.
When the flames take hold & run
Their sizzling length, fireworking tiny geysers 
And waterfalls of light up the crumbling lum
And into the dateless sky, it’s almost as if
There are ancient oceans lapping the walls,
Millennia stretching unendingly on
To where we’ll stride through wet ferns
And bracken, to us, to Barnhourie Hall.