(Published in Quamtum Leap, June 2023, 2nd prize winner in Open comp)

 

THE OPEN FIRE

Little people with high pitched voices

ran around in the flames and a little girl’s mind,

as the cats jostled for position and smiled at the heat.

 

The morning saw mother on her knees

dabbing a cloth into soft pink grit that danced across the tiles,

and filled my nostrils with a bubblegum scent.

 

Pink grit in a tin that seemed to last forever,

all part of the morning ritual, that also saw ash decanted

to a galvanised bucket and anything else reused

 

with kindlin chopped for pocket money

that merged with paper sticks, made with great effort

from yesterday’s Scotsman or the Southern Reporter

 

A door off the kitchen led straight into the coal house

always dark and cold, where a soot faced strongman

emptied heavy bags, like a landslide

 

something ominous about the rumble of falling coal

made me stay well away, just incase,

I disappeared beneath and was never found

 

and please make sure no cats enter here,

for fear of sooty paws on precious linen

embroidered with love and sent from Ireland

 

or even worse that a dark corner inside,

was a more appealing option, than chilly winds,

for the feline call of nature

 

those who didn’t get prime position

in front of the open fire,

purred beneath the skirts of the loose covers

 

Winged chairs, drawn close for relaxation

and warmth, shared with a little girl

who jostled with the hearth rug cat.

 

No such joy with central heating,

faceless, invisible, and all at

the flick of a switch.

 

Little people still dance and sing

in my fire, kept alive by glorious

Silver Birch, stacked outside in a

log shelter, created by kind neighbours.

No coal shed connects to my kitchen,

just a faceless concrete bunker, that fills from

the top and seems to let in rain.

 

All essential to maintain

comfort and warmth and create a focal point

that visitors always envy.