Fire in July

by Ingrid Leonard

Men linger at thi top o a rope
ower roilan sea, grey hope.
Nothing sleeps; thi life
in thi water hears a keening,
flees thi thud o time’s blood
let loose fae man-dug wells, sieved
an runnan tae this centre point,
this rig o rigs, thi Piper.

Oil, gas; we aal turn tae fuel
if left tae thi weight o dead
millennia. A burnan coal
is plissed in thi Stoorworm’s
belly an hids body varies thi earth.
There’re no heroes here,
nor virgins tae save –
are ye stout enough tae go,

calm yer cord-burned palms
in thi salt below? That’s a jest,
of coorse; a valve’s blown,
thi jig’s up, energy’ll keep pouran
in fae ither rigs an spill, set fire
tae thi oshun. Tae thi oshun,
beuys, tae thi oshun! Some’ll stey,
some no, Wur Piper is peppered

wi dots o men by thi helipads,
thi spider deck, thi in-between
plisses, craalan, climban,
weet cloots ower mooths
that pech for an exit – whit tae dae?
Thi comms system’s oot, min,
thi rig’s dyan… time becomes
filmic. Then, thi bangs,

thi bleesters – thi Stoorworm’ s oot,
hid twists an circles, dwarves
thi Alpha an men become skerries
in thi aize as deep time, this prolific
o sediment, bone is extinguished –
fire’s broad knife scores a note
on each organ. Piper’s wans perish,
or are saved by help come laet.
Happy Valley

It takes folk to change our frequency;
we dared each other to run through
an arch that was thick with bees
in an August of rude health, the air husky
with summer and the legs of insects.

We were a litter of newborns lying
near the Dams, chewing grass and squinting.  
The sky-vault was where it would be
the day after, wrapped as we were
in our laughter and time on the idle.