Burning purpose no more

The island is a world standing, 

laying low, 

prostrated, 

grazing on the sea, by itself. 

What is grazing there on the island, 

what is happening there in the houses, 

What is taking shape in the sandy soil and the avian reserve,

this is all island life. 

Not a shortcoming 

of what is happening on the continent, 

but a world by itself. Intertwined with other worlds, and other happenings.

The islanders are screaming “fire, 

fire” and the wind is invited to propagate 

the burning of material amassed here 

on the beach and in the garages, 

throughout the year. 

Pieces of crates bringing goods to the island, 

Of trees tossed across the channel,

bits

and pieces

of houses that crumbled away, 

tired tires good for the fire 

and nothing else, no more. 

The island is a small world breeding with the sea, 

a piece of land barely offered 

and rather captured 

and seized 

by a group of human grazers, 

processing the grass of the island through the domesticated sheep. 

The great grass beings 

and their fungi siblings 

are turning rock wind and sun 

into

sparse

stuff. 

Praise the blade of grass. 

A firefighter is throwing gasoline 

on the fire. 

With a focussed face, without showing much of his 

yet obvious

joy,

He is nurturing his purpose in one divergent instance.

The festival is an inversion.

The fireman knows 

what he is doing.

The purpose fire 

animates the spirit 

all what’s in between, no more. 

Flammable stuff

stitching 

a body of heat and light 

in the plentiful air, the breath from the sea monsters, 

the saga warriors and the foam of the waves 

splashing in darkness with

almost

no one to hear them.