Sparkstruck Poem by Jean Bernard Parr

In the manner of Davy Crockett
I have my fire-works in a yellow oilskin roll
that belonged to my stepfather the pigskin strap
once baby pink gone mummy brown, and
the stiff souwester- yellow pockets now filled
with my tinder, charred linen scraps and
not his shaving stuff and here's
some flints carefully selected
almost museum grade I reckon,
wedged into a dented cough sweet tin
all a bit wabi sabi, but its my bulwark
against monstrous modernity
I get it out when the spring throws its warm
shawl on the beach and the snakeweed steams
then I'm in indian country once more
the fluff you pull out of bullrush spears
works best its got oils that flare instantly
the tiny bouquet of sparks land and
heres my point
I watch the coal-black cloth glow
with these red flowers and join hands
with others, then fade
but a timely breath revives
my bloom again and alls well
just like the yellow lichen
on this rock that fans out like a silent and
secret horde
not murderous but maybe the way love spreads
and good ideas