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Just an evocation of memories past.

The Turf Fire

Fdf5205c-8b5b-4da8-a6dc-63fe28d680a9by Billy J. Stewart21 Jan 2014

In temperate days of autumn
Before the sun in sinking glow,
The fields lie all in sepia hue
Anticipating snow.
Above in true formation
Pierce the Vanguard of the skies
Fleeing geese are driven onwards,
Far horizons in their eyes.
And here, down here below, in hearth,
The fire licks and leaps,
Hungrily consuming logs a-dozen
Laid out in little heaps
Beside the gable wall,
Stacked high to dry and wait,
With crack and split in cutting wind,
Their burning fate.
The turf once rickled on the hill,
A bounty load now gathered in
And stacked in lean-to shed,
‘Neath leadened red of corrugated tin.
Impervious to all of natures throw
Imune, it seems, to winters leak,
A promise clasped in each and every clod
Of lovely blue-smoked reek.
The fire burns, its embers glow on stone,
The kettles on the boil,
Tay to pour, and bread and butter scone,
The fruit of labours toil.
Ah yes…content I am
To bide away the days
With kith and kin to entertain,
And anyone who for a minute stays
To “Ceilidh” with me and with stories tell,
To share the craic,
Recounting tales of yore and dare,
Are always welcome back.
You know I wouldn’t swap my lot
For land or castle fair on sunny hill
My home, my hearth was always in my heart
And it remains there still.
Remembering days of past
Recalling every face and nook, and clay-pipe smell,
The turf fire burns again,
All gathered in once more, are we, to story tell.