Westward, upriver from my tiny stiff hometown, 
Desiccated forest roared and cracked the summer long.
Woodsmoke musk faintly fouled the breeze.
My catch throat caught its grey taste for weeks.
It disappeared of late, an unremembered joint pain.
I witness this new October morning tick tap out a first frost.
Alone. Early at the beach to avoid tiny stiff eyes,
Inhale the chill sunshine,
I toe the marbled sandy margin of the curved bay.
Scribbled sticks mussed with rot betray the last highwater.
Charcoal shards are stark against pale sand.
At the river shallows’ lapping edge, 
Fresh blackened debris
Hopes then ebbs,
Awaits its turn to beach.
Insignificant granulated ash of once great forests,
Enfeebled by flame.
I yearn for the transformation of my world.
Bring the beautiful devastation that blooms from the wild consuming power of youth.

Alastair McIvor 2023

About Sand and Ash

Written a few months before I left the small town that had been my home for almost twenty-five years. I was restless then, about my life there and about the state of the world. Hopeful for a new generation.