Back in the woods by the lake
the old Victorian stands, little more than a shell,
and behind it the old mill,
its huge stone that once grumbled over grain
now covered in moss.

The owner of a flour company lived here;
his product, now part of some conglomerate,
has become a household name,
but he has passed on
into the memory-loss of history.

Who knows how many heads of state
and titans of industry he entertained here?
There was a rumor that Andrew Carnegie
once stayed the weekend. Now the only houseguests
are squirrels and ivy, snakes and wisteria.

There should have been a bronze historic plaque
out front by the fence,
but no one knows this derelict is even here,
save the volunteer fire company,
that haven for latent pyromaniacs.
The mansion is the subject of tonight’s “exercise.”

Trucks roll through the brush in early evening;
firemen unfurl the hoses.
A young man rings the building
with gasoline and lights a match.
A glow builds before them, competing with
the fire of sunset at their backs.

They watch, enrapt, as flames lick the façade,
the lintels and sashes, scorch the walls,
creep in bright ribbons and worry the soffits,
run up the stairs in the roar of backdraft,
crackle and groan the wood inside.
Smoky orange lights the empty door and window frames,
like some giant jack-o-lantern.

It is daytime again in this grove,
flickering morning with sun-like heat.
In the lake, the house’s twin burns,
doubling available light.
The roof buckles in on itself;
incendiary fireflies fountain skyward,
then fall like meteors,
some dying with a hiss in the lake,
some winking out in midair.

One large flake lands at a volunteer’s feet –
an old photograph,
ejected from the attic in final collapse.
He can still make out the outline of a family,
the patriarch with handlebar mustache,
starched collar, severe and proud.

The image darkens, paper curls like a black rose,
crawls with worming embers,
folding in on itself, crumbling to ash,
joining the house and its owner.
Parabolas of water arc into the flames;
none of the firemen remember his name.

09/22/2001

Posted on 09/22/2001
Copyright © 2024 Bruce W Niedt