Reading the Fire

I was sitting close to a roaring fire,

Shivering, for the night had grown colder.

With dreamy eyes I just gazed at the pyre,

Then felt The Minstrel’s touch on my shoulder.

He softly asked if he could share my blaze,

For the frigid air had frozen his bones.

He said that he had not been warm for days,

He’d traveled until his feet felt like stones.

We sat in silence for several hours,

His eyes were hooded, his face was a mask.

We faced each other, two great stone towers,

Bursting with questions, but afraid to ask.

Relenting at last, he beamed a great smile,

And he laughed as a burning brand crashed down.

Its sparks hanging in the air for awhile,

As he watched, his smile turned into a frown.

He said that the flames and embers tell tales,

Emblazoning stories on willing eyes.

That futures could balance on fiery scales,

And that elements would rarely tell lies.

He said if I watched and opened my mind,

I might see a story or two in time.

He remained uncertain what I might find,

Whether frightening, or perhaps, sublime.

Then he told me stories until moonrise;

I stared at the fire as his voice droned on,

Till the moonlight shone in my tired eyes,

And I realized The Minstrel was gone.

And yet, I don’t know if I heard his voice,

Or the stories came from flame and ember.

I still watch and listen to fires, by choice,

To learn tales that I try to remember.

Mick McKellar

July 2014

I remember telling stories around campfires when I was younger. I wonder, did we all hear the same stories?

Mick