Tuesday, 27 April 2010

fire's place


I see in these split logs
creased stories of trees,
their potted histories,

what time has packed
into each grain. How quickly
the wood burns

with an organised sound of toil,
working at the fuel
with a consumer's urgency and greed.

Finally this fire
will use up whatever 'pay-shuns
and per-severance,'

(as my Irish great-grandmother
would say) it has left
to conjure the heat

needed to warm my knees
and that area there,
where so much of the day

shores up, there,
right in between
my shoulder blades.

Kay McKenzie Cooke

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