I always enjoyed the towers which reached for the sky.
A dream to reach the clouds and show to the stars that light shines too from the dull dark world at night.
But every year they were made in kind, when the great ice of winter would retreat and reveal the fertile soil below.
In the warm light of a bonfire, and a feast of game hunted as they emerged from their winter hides, so would it all begin.
The trees were cut and lashed when their branches were removed to form the great legs which held the platforms aloft.
And high above the ground was stacked a mass of wood on every tower, a bonfire in the sky.
The feast would start when the first bonfire died, and from its embers were the fires upon the towers lit.
So will the heavens see the flames which we have made.
A prompt response.