Ritual

It is a grey morning

I am awake early

The backdoor is open

And cool air enters the kitchen

My father is on his knees

Scrubbing a wire brush

On the fire grate

Newspapers on the floor

He takes a rag

And pours black lead

Onto the stiffened fibres

Then he smears it

Onto the scrubbed surfaces

He balls up the newspaper

And throws it on the hearth

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Gathering Winter Fuel

Return to me and bring your loving flame,

despite your sparks my kindling rarely smokes.

Without you life will never be the same..

Between us lies a frozen lake of blame,

through which only a twig of passion pokes.

Return to me and bring your loving flame.

Unless we mend our ways the fates will claim

the pyre where our prid...

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