Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=418162" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Old Ha's Fire</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Old Ha (younger than we are now I’m sure) <br>Would carry out the boxes and papers each week <br>And empty corn beef tins which never burned <br>To build a sizeable fire in the county yard: </div><div style="margin:10px 0">A sprawling outpost of abandoned decades <br>Army huts and council stores with broken windows <br>Estranged from that modern world of the sixties <br>Irrelevant to the flux we chased and played in then </div><div style="margin:10px 0">He’d heap the rubbish up and scratch the box <br>And if the wind was in the west, kneel to the job <br>The papers would flicker and the liquid flames <br>Poured back and forth across pages and edges </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Until it gained the upper hand. Slowly, the spreading heat <br>Would capture us, as we huddled together up wind <br>And gazed, into the dancing kaleidoscope <br>Bewitched by a primitive secret, hidden </div><div style="margin:10px 0">In ourselves or in the strange quiet of the burning. <br>If we talked, the flames would keep their hold; <br>We’d angle our heads slightly to the listeners <br>And talk into the fire, never breaking eye to eye contact </div><div style="margin:10px 0">With the scorching deep heart that held us enthralled. <br>Ha would stand with a stick, and, every now and again, <br>Exactly at the right moment, poke some slacking, <br>Some dying patch of flame, and goad it back into life </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Always avoiding the hot hypnotic heart of the blaze <br>The perfect impenetrable centre that fixed us there <br>Until the precise moment it’s hold began to falter <br>When suddenly, he would go at it with abandon </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Master of the flames again, he disappeared to the shop <br>Unyoked, we’d disengage, but as if hung-over, <br>Would stand for minutes, glancing vacantly at the tins, <br>Lying at strange angles, mottled black and grey </div><div style="margin:10px 0">As the ash, light as air, vanished on the wind </div><div style="margin:10px 0">15 01 07</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Jim+Hogg">Jim Hogg</a><div class=q>
<img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share">
<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=418162" data-title="Old Ha's Fire de Jim Hogg" data-description="Old Ha (younger than we are now I’m sure) 
Would carry out the boxes and papers each week 
And empty corn beef tins which never burned 
To build a sizeable fire in the county yard: 

A sprawling outpost of abandoned decades 
Army huts and counci..."></div>
</div>
</div>