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Feed it to the fire.
Shake off all the dead wood,
Chuck it on the fire,
As the wind blows stronger,
The flames climb ever higher.
It’s a mystery that we claim,
When we come into this world,
When we put upon our name,
And learn to shape its words.
All troubles are the allies,
Of the spirits we rely on,
That rough edges do us favours,
That there’s little use denying.
It’s a mystery we accept,
When we’re pulled between the worlds,
When we’re struck by flailing limbs,
With whipping stings, we learn.
Shake off all your dead wood,
And feed it to the fire.
As the wise old wind blows stronger.
Your flame climbs ever higher.
Chuck it on the fire,
As the wind blows stronger,
The flames climb ever higher.
It’s a mystery that we claim,
When we come into this world,
When we put upon our name,
And learn to shape its words.
All troubles are the allies,
Of the spirits we rely on,
That rough edges do us favours,
That there’s little use denying.
It’s a mystery we accept,
When we’re pulled between the worlds,
When we’re struck by flailing limbs,
With whipping stings, we learn.
Shake off all your dead wood,
And feed it to the fire.
As the wise old wind blows stronger.
Your flame climbs ever higher.
Published Yesterday
Author's Note
Here in West Sussex, we've endured more than a couple of storms in recent weeks. Many trees have fallen and branches torn. Walking in the woods I was struck by how this strengthens trees and leaves them stripped of old weight, ready for spring. A lesson for our own lives I think.
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