The Burn

A gleam of sun
fitful, extinguishing
my black hand of embers
smoulders
at the climb, the turn, 
all burn marks gone (all burning done)
mind freed as thin as skin
skidding on thin air
here there nowhere.

Like smoke the word is born of agony
and disappearing acts;
of pace and steps; of packed
lives compressed into a box
small enough to hold
hot coal
as if feeling still remained.

And if it did,
would colour burn?
would light be lit -
enough to hear her screams undone,
to coax the flame unfolding with the sun,
to gently gleam its fitful fingers,
goldenbeam scorched skin and hands
of ember-black still smouldering -
be young enough for flames to catch and run?

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