I was walking past La Cotte, and musing on the Paleolithic inhabitants, and their use of fire...
The Fire Makers
Outside the cave, the land is bleak and cold
But the winds cease here, upon the threshold
And here the wood lies ready, mighty trunks
To smallest kindling, all broken into chunks
And ready for the fire maker of this tiny tribe
Who speaks the knowledge to his son, no scribe
But only oral tradition, passed down by mouth
With learning of the stars, of north and south.
Now the fire maker holds firm within his hand
Flint and stone, for these are on the borderland
Of magic lore, and suddenly he strikes the flint
Again and again, sparks fly, then there is a glint
Amidst the kindling, the dry leaves, and the ash
And he cries out, a wailing sound, as the flash
Takes, a glow begins, first small then brighter
As the fire takes hold, the darkness ever lighter.
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