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

And adds splintered wood

We keep in a basket

By the fireside

Coal rattles from the scuttle

Onto the heap of pulp

And a magic white firelighter

Is pushed into its midst

He strikes a match

And holds it to the white pebble

And slowly flame spreads through it

Smoke crawls up the chimney

And a new day

Sparks into life