The old stone dwelling, clad

in layered years of whitewash,

squats between farm track and field.

Against the winter-stained gable,

stacked turf leans, waiting.

 

Feathers of smoke wisp

from the chimney

fills the air with comfort,

and fiery flickers dapple

the open kitchen door.

 

The warm glow banishes

spring’s twilight chill,

the scent of turf mingling

with that from the bubbling pot

hanging over the fire.

 

Appetite awakens, and weary limbs

find repose as aches earned from

day-long labour fade with

the promise of evening’s ease.

 

The work will still be there tomorrow,

ever-present, never-ending,

tonight there is respite,

as the flames on the horizon

burn day into dreamless night.