Friendly Fire
Looking back, I'd call them now
our rookie days, when the two
of us, each with a sack, would go
to the dark woods and thence
bring back branch and twig and log
to fuel our fire. We'd sit
and watch our match ignite the kindling,
the magic as it grew and leapt
to flame and lit our faces, then
bring shadows of a sudden
into our sitting room.
Two things remain. Flame still
unsubdued, and shadows,
shadows that held no shape to recognise
when love blinded then our eyes.
How could we have in mind that
in the face of friendly fire
the shadow of a threat could hide behind?