Button Jar

Neighbours watched from dark windows
as he set fire to letters, chairs, the bureau
that popped open like a coffin and sent
up a whirlwind of magnesium strips –
burning photos, twisted negatives.
A button jar struggled to the top
of the blaze, glowed with forty years
of make do and mend, filled with
a blue green flame. Now I’ve started
buying it all back on the internet –
half a kilo of steam cleaned assorted
buttons in a frosted glass jar. Old photos
from last Sunday’s car boot. A houseful
of tat. When you threw the coats
on that fire a poisonous orange cloud
sent us running inside and you stood
where your evening chair had been
and almost cracked your face.
In the morning I crossed the lawn
to the half burnt heap and didn’t find
powdery ash splattered by spring rain.
I found a twisted body of clothes
to be stuffed in bin liners,
squashed in the car.