Fire, Fire, a poem

Fire, Fire

Fire and fog — what morning is this,
wandering the roads? What day?
Too young for a name. Too distant, singing
words it can not understand.

Mist and music — what birds huddle
behind the dawn, shiver gray
and silent? Learn these. Forget them along
winding chiaroscuro puzzles.

Fire, fire. Call the sun
to me. It can give my name,
hidden just beyond a hazed
horizon. I hear its song at last.

Stephen Brooke ©2025