An Open Fire
I miss an open fire.
Warmth, these days,
is breathed out of the thin lips
of a plastic vent commanded
by a button.
There is nowhere now
where I can sit
and stare into the depths
of a dancing flame,
enter that sacred space
where thoughts and mystery
meet and reconnects something
in me to its earliest roots.
I miss how an open fire
centres life around its glow,
how it works to draw us in,
gathers us to share
in its living warmth.
I miss how it fills in the silence
with its sounds,
the crackle, the whispering hiss,
the sudden bump
of a falling log. I miss
poking and prodding
the charcoal remains, breaking
them apart and seeing embers
ignite into a bright spill of flame.
I miss the smell
of burning wood, the incense
that first sanctified our ancestors
humble homes and awakened
a wonder that set us off
on our human quest.
I get it that an open fire is now
not an environmentally friendly
choice but a polluting relic
of the past. I know
the romance of it
no longer thrives.
It's rather like old religion,
better gone, but it leaves
a hole in our lives.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2025
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