TINE

The Gods, in playful mood
Snipped a forelock from the Sun,
And Prometheus in turn
Stole this Fire for everyone.
In the name of the Fire
the Sun and the Stars
This forever flame
Borrowed it's colour from Mars.

This fire got life from friction
As does every living thing,
From flash, flame and flicker
The cricket learned to sing.
Fire conspires with air
To bring liquid flame alive,
Yet still the mystery remains
Why only the pure survive.

And man believes in control
Of this element for himself
In forge and kiln and stove,
Red matches on the shelf.
The stake; democracy of fire
Invented by soul-savers
Not to lead better lives
But be owned by soul-slavers.

This fire produces Light
Frail shadow of the Dark,
Impatient fire never still
Using every spark
To brighten conversation
At the hearth of every grate.
Shape-changing theatre of tale,
Matter into nothing; nothing matters; too late.


Tine (Irish word for fire) is perhaps the most feared of the elements
and therefore deserves maximum respect.