Branches,

strewn like old bones,

keepers of knowledge,

givers of life,

now lay motionless.

What is there left in those redundant ribs to breathe?

What is the sadness in those smooth gnarled limbs?

What are the secrets held in their weathered whiteness?

They lay uncomfortably protruding from their rocky bed,

patiently waiting for flame to desperately search

within the cracks of their own existence.

The time has come.

Finally,

flames advance,

satisfying their hunger,

exalting their victory in a frenzied celebration.

Resisting,

holding on to form is futile.

It is time to surrender knowledge,

surrender secrets,

to be transformed,

released.

Dancing,

laughter,

explosions of life.

Orange joy whirls and waltzes into the darkness

The music slows.

The lights are dimmed.

Warmth is fleeing.

Where is the force, which so ravenously devoured

the bones of life?

Where is the joy in this ceremony?

Charred remains.

Stillness

Futility?

Patience

The bones danced for their release from their imprisonment.

Their celebration came with passion.

The gentle breeze now caresses the blackened mound,

carefully lifting, supporting the fine, frail, grey particles

to their new beginnings.

To honour

To nourish

Contentedly repaying Mother Earth

for that which it had taken.

To return.

Julie Stephenson