Four dream fires
You are not the poem I am writing about.
There were four fires in my dream
Mountain fires in four separate places
Started in my mind
And burning fine fynbos, before
Turning to hottest foreign pines and gums.
Four fires in four places
Turning direction in the wind
Four fires destroying and edging closer
To the houses on the edge
Now burning little piles, now big piles
Of second-hand books, my dead fatherâ€™s books
My books, the childIneverhadâ€™s books.
Each book a word
Each book a feeling
Each book up in flames
And a dream me
On the edge
Of four fires.