Fire Dance, Resurrected Minute

At the recent Bay of Plenty Polytechnic Ohope Writers' Retreat, seven of us stayed in two adjacent houses across the road from the beach.  Ours was an experienced Lockwood, with plenty of windows, comfy chairs and a good ol' potbelly at the heart of it.

It was one of those Lockwoods you feel is talking to you.  As it starts to feel the evening chill, it gives a groan and thanks you for the fire radiating from its heart.  At 4am, you are startled awake as it grunts in its sleep and shuns the cold.  As the sun starts to embrace it again the next morning, you hear the crack of the spine as a stretch puts all back into place.  "Another beautiful day," its says with a yawn.  It called to me somewhere between the four o'clock grunt and the nine o'clock stretch.  "There is writing to do and you only have one more day with me!"

I make the fire and a coffee while still in my pyjamas and bare feet.  I wrap myself in the crocheted comfort rug that has become attached to me over the week and pull up a sinky armchair.  I manage to finish my Morning Pages (three pages of non-stop-writing-no-matter-what) before getting lost in the flames.

Fire Dance

A lone dancer, of many limbs,
dressed in fine silk of ochre,
a quiet breeze moves her.

She leaves glowing threads
on the unmoved, dead
wood.

Her movements grow in intensity.
With conjuring arms she casts a spell
over wooden hearts wrapped
in her embrace until they
give up, soften, tear
apart to become the
warm bed for her
next subject.



Resurrected Minute

I watch the flames, colour of fox,
dance in the box.
They're hiding now.
I think of how
the wood I feed was dead before
and nothing more
until it meets
the fox's needs,
comes alive for this sweet time
of warmth and I'm
just blessed to sit,
enjoying it.


BY JEANETTE JONES