Gorse Fire

The colour of a flame—
we might have surmised that
what we are, our essence,
is flammable substance,
skin of wild pea flowers,
a yellow flecked by red,
a furze, its ember grit
scented like coconut;
fire that leaps like fever
across our skin, crossing
our borders then to spread
(reports declaim) faster
than torch-bearing sprinters,
taking the river town,
several forest parks,
the mountains, then south;
burn scars left in its wake,
from the start to the finish,
as though flammable thought
had lit a pathway home,
scorching parts of the land
the gorse had covered once.
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