Raking Over Church Yard Cinders Poem by Mark Heathcote

That night in the churchyard I raked cinders
This way and that; like a Chinese gardener.
Rinses the sun's gold. 'Black renders lacquered'
Into green coals, honeycombs, hot pitchers.

There I see the broth in her eyes poking fun.
As I raked the cinders this way and that,
I am reminded of our hot fiery spitting spats.
That charcoaled my fires to the bone and made shun.

Like a shadow from the sun, like a bee from the rain.
And why with the job done. Did I let mosquitoes bite?
Blister and bloody my smoke - kippered skin, again
And again, I question, what's to reignite!

As the moon bequeaths its skeletal light!
Through the eye sockets of distant; lank-white-stars,
I'd perch a blackbird with my feathers alight
Hoping to find her old warmth's in the winds guitars.