A brushfire overran the glen last May;
The undergrowth and scrub were quickly gone
As tinder for the blaze, all swept away —
A single scarred catalpa carried on.
Yet two months later, that same blackened field
Saw saplings, prairie grasses, tufts of green —
In five years’ time, the scars will all be healed;
The urge for growth relentlessly scrubs clean.
So how much like that valley are we two?
A decade since we let each other burn
For spite and rage, we meet by chance at Kew;
We clumsily embrace, and can discern
From reading of a once-familiar face
That all our arsons left no lasting trace.