aide-de-camp

someone somewhere lights a fire 
woodsmoke blue haze drifts
soft and slow the evening air 
far far over there
and palms are warm
and one face calm
and growing tongues of flame are long
a hunger quenched yet never stilled
a belly filled and warm

and at our own gas fires
in our safe homes
behind our glazing and our bricks
far we are from primal warmth
our piped heat is pale and cool
a waning imitation
of orange red green living
up to a black sky sparking 
valiant and alive

then - beneath our first 
heaven domed and wide
we sat starry-eyed
before a vital comfort
dousing us with light and hope
countering our wide-eyed fright
at god-paths lighting
that black sky 
before our hands
the sparks in shower
the fire's roar 
we were deafened by our awe
and silence in the stretching lands

now - our own voices choke our throats
our clamour rots the air
we have no time for sitting
looking up - our awe
submerged in fever satire and no prayer 
there is no space that is not 
dredged or gouged
to feed our minds and mouths
no animal not sacrificed

yet somewhere still
is silence in the stretching lands
fire kindles by a person's hands
and blue smoke drifts as quiet
as an owl call heralds night
one last aide-de-camp in solitaire
on sojourn from his General's stare

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