Ali Jones





When we light the fire under you, consider this;
that a glowing coal, embering away,
was once a tall tree, a fern, or a reed, maybe?
It lived, once, a hundred million years ago,
can you imagine that?

Every summer, for its whole life,
it reached for the sun and caught light,
magicked it into itself, bark, twigs, leaves,
because it could.

Everything is nature, we all eat light,
when this thing died, it fell, maybe into water,
sleeping for aeons in decay,
folding itself back into the earth.

Think about it.
One year, an exhalation, a decade in a finger snap,
your whole life is a cloud, shifting.

When it dried and hardened to bones,
someone dug it up and brought it here,
scuttled it into the grate,
and now that sunlight is heating you,
carrying you away.

We should open our eyes,
see what we can,
before they close forever;
look carefully, every day.



Ali Jones is a writer from Oxford. She is interested in how words can allow us to time travel, and to make sense of the world around us in terms of our experience, and the history of experience held within the landscape. She is also a teacher of English and Media Studies at an inner city school.

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