I, Chimney
One rain-soaked morning at the mill owner’s behest they assembled on the hillside.
High above his workers’ harsh existence, building commenced on the mansion.
Brick by brick, inch by inch I emerged.
First floor reached, two sturdy hollow legs joined to form my trunk.
Upward they built, two more storeys, the roof and then my finery.
Ornate brickwork topped with a jaunty pot – I was the dandy of the mansion.
In cast-iron fireplaces fires roared sending hot smoke through my body.
I was alive, smoke belched out announcing my arrival.
Days turned into weeks turned into years – I became the house’s backbone.
In those early years small boys would lovingly clean my inners of tar and soot.
But this intimate relationship would soon be replaced by cold mechanical brushes.
Decembers arrived and the children posted their secret letters to Santa.
Once devoid of paper their words flowed along my warm smoky currents upwards and northwards.
In war years I served as a refuge for family treasures lovingly packed in tin boxes.
Some were forgotten and still wait to be rediscovered.
On cold winter’s days my warmth was like a homing beacon.
Rooks, crows, pigeons circled like aircraft waiting to land on my warm terracotta pot.
But alas I was not part of the modern way – my starring days were over.
Birds migrated as metal veins connected to gas fires transported toxic cocktails to the rooftops.
Then gas fires were removed, fireplaces blocked up – stale air lingered deep inside me.
My pot no longer a crowning glory was replaced by a concrete capstone.
And now I’m hidden – my external limb amputated through reroofing.
I’m still, I’m silent but I will always remain chimney.
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