Secondary Succession

I am full of life again...

On the hilltops…
tiny plumes magnified into sublime smokestacks, 
billowing swollen clouds of ash and sulphur. 

“Hell is the absence of God” –
In hell, there is nothing at all,
not even the taste of fragrant ash –
the smell of rancid, sour incense.

Church halls are full of absence.
Oily wood panelling and sallow skinned linoleum starts a grease fire,
but their wood foundations burn slowly, smoulder.
Beige, knee high socks and roman sandals,
skipping over the ruins. 
A marching band plays the same dirge for a week 
until the Grand Final makes everyone forget.

No, God is licking flames across the countryside,
sap oozing trees spreading rebirth,
seeds blooming anew as saplings to burn again.

And love still burns the lip of my ashtray.
I’ve made a fool of myself too many times
and learnt nothing, especially as a teacher.

Do you remember? 
The fire spread across the school,
the dust in the corners of the library igniting,
sparking like fizzing candy on my tongue.
Books and limp magazines – blackened bodies.
It made the teenagers cantankerous,
lined up on the lawns like tin soldiers, 
grumbling with their hair aflame.

So, I’ll burn it down and start again – again.
The fire and the regrowth are the teachers.
Secondary succession.

In my dreams, I am the ever-willing student
brought to the point of annihilation,
scarred by third degree burns –
Hideous and beautiful.
I am full of life again;
monstrous mutated life with no word for regret.