We Don’t Have Bonfires

We don’t have bonfires ever any more.
The brambles moulder in unwanted silage.
Compost feeds on leaves of beech and cob
While nuts and branches re-join in the bin.

We don’t burn holly on the thirteenth night
The crackle and the spit of bursting berries .
Christmas wrapping paper carefully stored
Will serve for birthday gifts throughout the year.

We don’t toast pink marshmallows any more
The sticky knitting needles children’s hands
Clutched till they became too hot to hold
With whispering giggles, eyes round in the glow.

We don’t make charcoal from the apple twigs
The pie-smell roasting rotten peel and cores
Creating cauldrons in the red log caves
Will fade to memory’s ashes dry and grey.

We don’t have dying bonfires, though, in mind.
The flames that we remember, yellow and red
Carry colour coding year on year
When Kerria and roses, pruned, dead-headed, bloomed.

And smarting eyes are smiling through the smoke
Where intimacy sharing family warmth
Remains in cherished thoughts of seasons gone.