the fire of 1613

They were in the bear pit. Not wanting to fight. Talons
Withdrawn. All of them. Generations and generations of
Merricks. Innocent though tarred with the guilt of blood
Shed in a time and country they had never known. Some-
One swung a hammer, and the bear pit caught fire. A
Thatched roof singing spiss in a late Summer shimmy.
The rain reneged on its contract. The flames fanned by a
Misplaced mistral. The fire burnt for thirty days and thirty
Nights and then it burnt some more, slow burning now,
Flickered menace, a reminder of warmth, the evidence of
Change. When it was burnt through you could not say there
Was nothing left. Like burn marks on skin, there was the
Implication of a form whose meaning was forgotten, or
Beyond any obvious reading. Survivors picked their feet
Through the ash. Foreign breezes sallied forth. Newcomers
Would never have guessed the games (of cruelty, laughter
Tension) that this site had encompassed. If they had
Lived to tell the tale, the bears might have bungled their
Way through the tealeaves of this labyrinth. Chased each
Others tails a laughing. Cavorted in the mismaze.