Flint

Near the end, good god man,
Nearly all and sundry went feeding
The last lazy licks of the flame;
Newspapers, napkins,
Failed poems crossed out then torn
From their bindings;
The long-stowed firewood’s final few
Logs were hefty as newborns,
Then it was on to old books and
Precious heirlooms.
Poor rocking horse Charlie
Fell to the fire-axe,
Alf creeping up behind
Across creaking boards
To deal the coup de grace.
We toasted the encyclopaedia
From anthrophagi in Papa New Guinea
To experiments with Zener Cards,
Each volume joining its brothers
Like a fat, eager loaf.
We gnawed at furniture legs with a bandsaw
And the dining table seemed to sink into
The polished pine floor
Until it lay quadriplegic and Japanese –
So plum pathetic we had to put it out of its misery,
As night set in, it was dust-furred oil paintings,
Soft furnishings,
The bath towels,
Our bleak masterpieces,
Scarves, sweaters,
Then, one by one,
We stepped into the waning warmth ourselves,
The iron door swinging closed behind us.