The spreading fire

It moves without line. Without time. Quietly running, expanding and transforming, spilling through space, nourished by what was there before. Fingers and tongues licking red brick and timber, man and his story.

The spreading fire resists definition, resists language – an elemental force that cannot be easily bound or held. It feeds and it catches, further and further, gently breaking down old seats and structures, preparing space for recovery and renewal.

Its body is like no other.

We stand beside one another in its enormous heat. Growing tall in excitement, sweat and fear, gazing upon old faces washed in awesome light. 


To pour softness into the place of hardness. 

To offer tender flesh, smooth skin and find it cradled.

To hold a space for souls to meet and for our hearts to leap to our mouths, 

for soft walls to be parted as our rhythm quickens and slows.

The sirens will not wail but those that witness will gasp and shake and dance in the ash.

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