Culture 2 May 2013 "Fires": a poem by John Greening Sign-up There’s one made up of the Norse world and Anglo-Saxon spearshafts at the bottom of our garden, its golden key-bunches seared to a scarred grey homonym by morning. Damp. Misty. I’ve built another out of three small logs from the elm they felled for us in May – an ’80s offer, delivered through our letterbox with a scattering of poetry, disease-resistant. Though not foolproof. Sapporo Autumn Gold may glow from the grate all day, but I am in another room, trying to make green cuttings catch with a few breaths and this paper. This article first appeared in the 29 April 2013 issue of the New Statesman, What makes us human? SUBSCRIBE More