' Laved in the flame as in a Sacrament...' Thomas Merton

There was a rash of burnings

that autumn - the arson squad

said circumstances were suspicious,

but there was a lack of evidence

to pursue a prosecution.

Always at evening, in heavy weather,

humidity insisting something happen.

Storms came later, but there was no lightning

to blame. And the pattern pushed

the odds out of orbit: with a bit

of imagination, you could make five

points with the town as the centre.

Pentacle, Pentecost, pent-up energy.

The wick lit, they just erupted,

traces of sap crackling like trees

rundown by bushfire. At a point

above the stacks a blue halo, wavering

circle that lopped down over the last light

of days just not right for seeding.

On the fifth occasion, the owners

of one property called on the Anglican

minister to do a blessing, and then, for good

measure, the Catholic priest. An old Aunt

suggested looking back into the Old

Testament, talking persistently

about Jerusalem belonging to all religions,

of plagues and desert and exile,

her long-dead husband's Jewish roots

lost to the fires, the hidden fuel

that feeds the burning of haystacks.