Burnt Wood

 

We'd sit down the river, not far from the sea,
summerlong putting dents in million year old sand
full of bones and space. Always a fire
biggest we could conjure with driftwood
livewood, t-shirts and trees. Beer cooled
in the mighty, black water that sang
with the cracks and spits of flames.

Nothing was old. Not even the sand.
Flickering warm faces and cold backs.
As drunk as no tomorrows. If we were birds
we'd have forgotten how to fly and remembered
something better; the verve of stars
fucking on the ripples.

I still don't know what all that meant
but I know it meant everything
and always will. People are gone. Places gone.
Still peddling home in the dark
as the wind sheds the fire from my eyes.