Brushwood Fire.

Our love was like a brushwood fire; unexpected, all-consuming:
The spark that crackled between us,
And ignited our tinder-dry souls.
The billowing, searing crimson
That we'd never known before that moment.

My love, I never stopped thinking of you.

Bursting star-bright into an irresistible flame that scorched our
wings
It sent us tumbling to earth apart.
But when we rose, chastened
Yet thrilled at this tingling new experience -
We knew that our moment had passed.
We knew it would never - could never - return.

My love, I never stopped thinking of you.

And now that I'm older, though precious little wiser,
I realise that the flame never died.
How could it?
Whether smouldering, slow-burning taper
Or some sudden spark that flares
Into vivid scarlet blossom, it lives,
And warms our older, sadder hearts
Into the drab tranquil silence that lies beyond.

My first love, I never stopped thinking of you.