It was a good bonfire
Leaving the autumn pasture
Covered in light smoke
Like some medieval campsite
Knives sheathed; leaning on our
Newly whittled staffs
We spoke of fathers; how some
Keep on living long after their souls
Leave their bodies
Leaving their wives with less laughter
And life than they deserve
If we ever become bitter old men, he
Said, directly to my eyes,
We have to... we have to cut
Our women loose, before we pull
Them down with us
The wind changed, blowing smoke
And ashes through the trees
Point it out if it happens, I replied
We shook on it