THE LAST FIRE


was hottest when all the branches
were burned
and all that was left was a pile
of smouldering ashes
and a few charred sticks.
Occasionally it would burst
into flame again
and send a spark flying onto the grass;
that we didn't want,
so, with our boots we cleared
a circle round
removing twigs
and small branches.

The pile of fir wood,
gathered from the forest,
I moved further away.

Full of cones and needles,
it's the stuff that burns the best.

I looked at the fire.
The heat was still intense.
The white ashes were like a blanket -
the fire had gone to bed.
But it could soon be woken up again,
said Johannes, cautiously.


Tired after my exertions
I lay on the grass
looking up at the sky,
clouded over now, after
a sunny and pleasant morning.
But time had gone slow.
Daniel gathered the saws
and was impatient to leave.

I watched the fire for a minute
before we headed back up the field
leaping over the dry stone wall
stepping carefully over boggy ground
climbing the path to the van.

How different it was
to just three weeks ago
when everything was silent
and covered in a white shroud.
Now birds fluttered above
and Sweden
seemed like a different country
without its blanket of snow.