Fondly recalling many olden times,
Huddled together by the hearthside.
Its warmth and closeness like a shawl,
Drawing us ever nearer to that fiery focus.
Dim light from an oil lamp made it magical,
As flames swooped and extended from within.
The smell of freshly cut turf from the bog,
Seeped into clothing and drifted into being.
Contentedly observing the heart-hole of flame,
It simmered a creeping redness upon itself.
There it was easy to drift away to all other places,
Old Irish homesteads thrived in this kind of welcome.
©Copyright Eileen T O’Neill 15/10/2015
Poets United Midweek Motif: Fire…