Open Fire.

Open Fire.

The first cool night
Heralds autumn’s arrival.
A snapping westerly that slams gates
Kills butterfly’s and shakes fruit
To the ground.
Onions, piled in boxes
Winter stew ammunition.
The starters crackle and spit
Upon the grate.
I tentatively wait
Black Ballard turf to hand
To stack the ancient fuel
As father taught me.

The ash is hissing
Seasoned softly
This years timber
Retains some moisture.
The first waves of heat
wash over us .
Cuddled tight
Under a duvet
The open fire
We are transfixed by the leaping shadows
its radiant amber.
Such luxuries we treasure now
In these times of woe and furrowed brow.

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