With A Pointed Stick

This poem was the second of threes poems I wrote the Growing Space, a horticultural project for people recovering from mental illness, based at Tredegar House in Newport. Sadly, I've misplaced the dates and details, but I've always rather liked it, so here it is.

With A Pointed Stick.

When the first bloodied lump
Fell into the fire,
And the tribe did little else than shout,
There came one man,
With a pointed stick,
Who valiantly tried to poke it out.
And he poked it right,
And he poked it left,
And he stirred the ashes about,
And the tribe were glad
That there came one man
With the gumption to try to poke it out.

And `til this day
When the heavens roar,
And the tribe to the kitchen's fled,
You'll find one man,
With a pointed stick,
Who'll stop and poke the fire instead.
And he'll poke it left,
And he'll poke it right,
`Til the charcoal's cold and dead,
And until he's got that bloody sausage out
He'll stop and poke the fire instead.