we rake them into pyramid pyres,
by Philippa Lane
our satisfaction glowing like the flame
with which we light them.
we watch them smolder and consume,
and flirt with summer's memory,
whose ghost arises from the charred remains.
but on the leaf-cleared ground next day,
we stand unsure of our suburban ritual,
our sense of order questioned
by the pungent smell of conscience
lingering in the air
long after the cremation
we now illogically regret and mourn.