Lighting the fire

These days, it is for warmth and comfort
that we light the fire.
No longer a necessity,
not a daily need.

In years gone by, it was.
In years gone by, so many fires were lit:
not all for warmth and comfort.

Now come of age, in this new century,
the preparation is a hallowed
morning sequel to a cosy evening, passed
with pleasure, maybe days ago.

Yet we recall the laying, 
the morning after.  Sweeping first,
the dust and ashes, prompting thoughts
of future dust and ashes.

These days, we vacuum-clean the hearth,
until all dust has gone, 
and the empty grate awaits
its charge.

First, foremost, and unfolded -
to form crumpled printed flowers -
are the papers.  Newspapers
no longer bearing news, though sometimes,
as you see in such easy moments of distraction,
offering forecasts which the future, passed,
has mocked or praised.

These paper flowers 
now lie prepared for kindling, culled from logs
precisely cut with accurate axe, 
or purchased, packaged,
at a price.

Either way, the firewood makes a bed
for longer, larger, wider logs
which will give out the warmth
we want in winter.
And so the moment comes
for firelight, matched
magically by the slenderest
of tiny phosphor-coated sticks.

The striking thing
is how the paper, logs and kindling laid
catch light, and how the flame
takes hold, made
brighter, lighter, stronger
as the fire burns.

These days, the flames bring warmth
and comfort
as we watch in wonder.
Yet in watching
and in wondering,
our thoughts might wander
to the other man-made fires
that mark and mar,
and scar our past.

Those days, it was not for comfort
that the stakes were raised
and the fire prepared.
It was not then for warmth 
that those fearsome fires were lit.

The necessity then was
something else.
The daily need 
a dreadful deed.

And now, and still, the pall
appals, as we hide, 
these days,
in cosy warmth and comfort.

Brushing aside
our cindered, ashen past.


October 2013