The Fire

The fire shifts and gasps a small plume of ash,
that falls, like a thousand minute parachutes,
to bespeckle the oft-scrubbed hearth.

Its heart, only moments earlier, radiant,
glowing, as the summers noon-day sun,
turned a dirty, winter grey.

We sit pretending not to notice its dying;
some feigning sleep, others, suddenly
enraptured by yesterdays headlines.

Having neither paper, nor high-backed chair,
in which to slouch, I rise from the stool
and grabbing the turf bucket, venture out.

One day, I shall be master of my own house.
I will sit in the corner, in the soft chair,
stoking my pipe; my feet, the nearest to the fire.

I will wear long trousers and proper boots.
My youngest son will bring in the turf and...
as the icy wind chills, curse my comfort.