Fire in the Head

The spark that ignites
the fire in my head
glows white.
Casts shadows upon the
lacquered bricks of my small cell.

The spark that ignites
the fire in my head
leapt out at me from
beneath the cauldron,
stirred by the cailleach
as she buries it in soft white ashes.

The spark that ignites
the fire in my head
scorches my tongue,
makes me dumb and
senseless to speak
of the red hot sparks fanning out like
dandelions into the cold grey waste.

The spark that ignites
the fire in my head
above my green veiny heart
stirs up the cauldron of my eye,
scalds my face.

The spark that ignites
the fire in my head
melts the oils soothing
the adder striped scales of my hand,
sloughs off the hard callous of
my shins and heels.

The spark that ignites
the fire in my head
heats the concrete legions
beneath Watling street,
beneath the chalk skull crowning the soil
beneath my bended bones
and above theirs; smoking, kindling.

The spark that ignites
the fire in my head
illuminates the glorious
flood over your face
from your melted eyes.
The spark that ignites
the fire in my head
pierces my blistered tongue,
baptises the baby raw skin shining
above my restless feet,
dancing next to yours.