‘I done it,’ he called up the stairs.

‘I used four matches – all at once,’ he added.

I zipped up and charged down,

a deep bass drum pounded

inside my chest, and there it was,

in all of its flickering amber glory, growing,

climbing the sooted chimney, before

my white-soled sandal stomped

its frightened authority on paper and kindling.

As it crackled and spat, and fire clung

to my scarred sole, extinguished only

by a dance on the tiled hearth,

and I asked, ‘What d’you do that for?’

And my little brother replied,

‘Coz you couldn’t do it with one!’