Miracle of Fire

          Meade's children, gentle giants, large
          hands cup the lit fire, smoke tangles

          in jet curls—together, we scratch
          dirt from ant hills, scrape bark off

          water trees, pull grubs from
          confines of dead logs, walk with me

          Mother, I call your hands from beyond
          damp earth, six feet under in

          another country,
          on another continent, liars
          this was and will always be 
          your home, Margaret, among these

          primitive people, sunburnt children,
          ponderous adults, your friends, love
 
          Holly Day, 04 August 1997