Tongues of flame licked,
Twisted and swam
Among driftwood and husk
Crushed cans lie by boots and barefeet alike,
Hunting dogs snuffle the undergrowth, fur matted in boar blood.
Torn, tired and scarred hands rest between scuffed knees
A brief respite, for all attending will awake before dawn
Cane, cattle, dirt and toil is in my DNA
As a child, legs brown in dust, littered with scabs - legacy of a farming childhood.
I'd watch the fire-bug sparks drift toward the soft evening sky, adorned in cold unreachable jewels,
And listened,
**** destroyed a years worth of crops,
Price of fertilizer was increasing
The price of sugar plummeted
Underneath the lighthearted camaraderie and the shared stories of hunting,
These men were terrified,
Tired,
Losing hope and will,
And I knew,
I knew, that this life would not be mine.

My dearly beloved,
I mean me of course.
Realisation that at the end
I will be joined by no other
than my former selves.
The contemplative child,
the argumentative adolescent,
the stern steadfast teen,
the resigned, mournful, dead in the heart adult.
Now, in mid-twenties, battled, won and lost.
Worn, determined, haloed  by oblivious might
Who will I be in the next stage of life?
Yet to be determined by me.
Strength, blindness and toil.
I forge on, while end of human era is near,
Closer, with each passing breath, a child is born
Destined to a world that rages on fire unseen,
And yet, I sit, I drink tea
I watch Greta fight
With conviction I thought once ruled me,
And yet, still I sit
Still I drink tea,
Wondering vainly,
Who might I be?