Fireguard

Is that a set of bloodied prints, which dissects the open plain,

Neither blotted out nor muddied, by the noble trekker’s livestock,

for these days he has no grazing herd; he steers an airborne flock.

And he’s transverse this terrain, as his adversities have worsened.

Gusty winds have dusted over potholes left by scudding boulders;

A sorrow to the thrower, not their target.

Likewise, the smattering of claret-painted thorns, strewn far and wide,

Provide a spiteful sniper’s carpet, which would chide the walker’s stride;

A pair of fresh green leaves lay there as well; dislodged from his back, that range which forms his load.

… his “Food for the road!”

and those high-arched dents extend up to the station where he motions,

intercepting, redirecting, a devotee on location,

shivering in the stillness of the wilderness.

He is The Fireguard.

A die-hard at his base, he works at pace;

Staunch watchman to nocturnal desert pests,

moths, mosquitos, parasites, and all scrubland detestables besides.

Whose eyes are dazed and dazzled by the gently dancing flames,

which flicker so invitingly, excitingly; inciting to a suicidal plight.

Like a siren in the Empty Quarter, calling to a future bright and warm,

A port in a storm, a portent of peace, the potential of ease;

How many an unwary life they’ve seized!

These bugs tantalise their lifeguard, with their weaving, winding flight path,

Half-conforming, then descending at the last.

They only seek to bait, with the evasive course they trace around their graveyard,

Each nimble swerve exasperates his grasp.

He never wields a fire hose against the rampant blaze

For he knows that only fallen tears can quench widespread infernos.

He absolves himself of guilt in a verbose proclamation,

“Yaa sabaaha! Yaa sabaaha!” the red alert he raises,

Whilst lunging to avert those wasteland bugs who try to skirt him,

He wards off with his left, before wafting with a right,

Alas, they blunder on, defiantly in flight.

Fire fodder forever, into oblivion they spear,

Fire guarded no more, they will not reappear.

 

And still, he labours,

Shimmering in the half-light of the fireside,

The firefly’s saviour;

A guardian for those precious few who care enough to listen,

Instead of hastening pall-mall past his glistening limbs and face.

Their vision’s been consumed by the light his cheeks emit,

Noor upon noor; around his countenance, they flit.

Their intuition now engaged, they reconfigure their position.

Swivelling on a sixpence, with a hovercraft’s precision.

And it wouldn’t cross their minds to sting or bite,

Like poetry in motion, they’re a marvel to the sight.

Their green and yellow flashes complement the cosmos' gases

And the fire’s missiles, which pebbledash the sands;

Star-speckled canopy above, spark-laden hearthrug down below,

between the two they glow.

And as they hum into the darkness it’s no bonfire that illuminates their way,

it’s a beaming Makkan beacon hard at work, no longer stricken with dismay.

Sole guidance through the parched sands, of the sacred desert heartlands,

Candlestick by night, burning torch by day,

He ushers them away.