Making Compost

I've been out making compost,
it's the right thing to do;
recycle all the nutrients,
reduce pollution, and all that;
I ought to be satisfied,
could probably feel smug.
I know this, I know,
but I miss the burning autumn leaves,
I miss what used to be,
doing the leaves with Grandfather,
way back when I was eight.

Grandfather worked with his big rake ;
I worked with one my size,
raking up a heap of red and green and gold,
until we had enough to light, and then we'd sit
there was never any rush.
We'd sit in the gutter while the heap burned slow,
and we'd talk of this and that.

We'd talk about the thin blue plume of smoke
and why it only went so far, then curled,
we'd talk about the autumn leaves
and birds and ants and grass,
with me snuggled in his arms.
Now as I work the compost
rake it up and dump it in,
I think of those long afternoons,
just sitting in the gutter while the heap burned slow,
and the smell of burning leaves is in my head.