Blazing as you cough,
laid there flat in cot with cold,
sleep eludes a weary babe of troubled, tender throat.
And close here by the stove,
glowing orange, glowing warm,
blackest iron, whitest ash and wooden log to burn.
Whilst fire bright,
rivals low slung sun outside -
insufficient heat and haze and insufficient height.
Surely gone is summer glare from walls it cannot climb.
From house of stone,
autumn wood and winding road,
cobbled yard and tethered bull in years before our own.
Darker season of the year,
light the lamp and make the tea,
pull on woollen cardigan and tug on length of sleeve.
Solid black beloved core of certain, sudden heat.
If you enjoy my writing you might enjoy my little book - A Familiar Voice - which is available on special offer until Christmas.