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…
