Winter comfort
Low sun slides behind fells,
it’s time to light the fire.
Ash in the drawer
is colder than death.
I scrape it into the bucket.
Five kindling pieces and a firelighter
built in a shape that reminds me of a trebuchet.
Two small dry logs.
One match.
No more.
From haunches watch flames
dance and lick
and judge the right moment to
close the vent.
Log basket full.
Dog flops on the rug
close enough to melt.
Hearth, here is home and heat.
The world can rage on outside,
for now
as I nod fleetingly to ancestors at their firesides.
