Wind wafted wood smoke,

Scent's the evening air.

As cuttings from sharp secateurs,

Release sweet perfumes fair.

Odours from spent raspberry canes,

Join the prunings of fruit trees,

To form a precious incense,

Upon an Autumn breeze.

Fruitful boughs of summer,

Lie skeletal and bare.

Destined for destruction,

Within the bonfire's flare;

Succumbing to the fiery heat,

In glowing flames so bright.

With hiss, and spit, and crackle,

They warm the chilly night.

Sparks, in torrid flight released,

On rising thermals, upward go.

Like lanterns bright, they gleam and shine,

Then die, to lose their heat born glow,

As in the darkness of the night,

With twist and turns, away they soar.

Changed now to cosmic flotsam,

They are seen no more.

Bright embers radiate a warmth;

Residual heat they share,

While tongues of coloured flames,

Paint pictures in the air.

Now it's time to bake potatoes.

Rolled in protective foil,

Cooked through and through

And butter soaked.

A just reward for work and toil.

– Don Dickenson