Ashlands

A match flicked tumbles twice to land
And blazing bites away near grass
In time has cleared a blighted brand
Where after seedlings shall not pass

In such a scar where might life stand
To celebrate our sacred mass?
Where can grip or purchase planned
Be found on black volcanic glass?

Strip of phosphate, burning fanned,
A twig of wood by man made crass,
Then thoughtless thrown ignites a band;
Prohibits life — alone at last.