The Night We Discovered Fire

The night we discovered fire –
I don’t mean ‘rubbing sticks together’ fire
(that was later)
but the earth-ripping conflagration
that plundered our forest and drove us, terrified and screaming,
into the cave’s dark depths -
we watched in horror as the flames crashed and roared,
scorching the rock face
with their yellow, lapping tongues
and sucking the very breath from our lungs.

'Imagine,' you said – your thoughts expressed
in a sophisticated series of grunts and gestures –
‘If we can capture that power,
one day we shall be able to light this cavern,
cook our food, warm our skins, heat our water.’
I was transfixed by the beauty of your conception.
‘In vast cathedrals of fire,’ you continued,
your arms flapping in wild demonstrations of excitement
reflected by the flames onto the cave walls,
‘we shall create enough energy to illuminate the world!’
I replied with a glance of my eyes:
'What’s a cathedral? What's energy?'

But we did manage it, didn't we?
(after continents had divided, oceans formed, our fur shed).
We concentrated all that energy into the size of a single matchstick:
we lay in luxurious baths of soap-scented heat,
fed ourselves on oven-fresh bread,
made candlelit love (face to face!).
'What's next?' I asked
(isn't it funny how little we say now that we have the words?).
You looked misty-eyed.
I could tell that you were remembering that first night,
picturing the force of the furnace plundering the world around us.

'Now,' you said, 'now we destroy the planet.'