Ashes

Ashes

The ashes in the grate are grey and cold,

Just dust really.

The young, strong, bright, hot fire

Burnt so proudly yesterday,

Though if you prod with a stick to the heart

The embers have some warmth there still.

I remember how the grey old woman

Took a long, metal pipe to such a grate,

And to such grey cinders.

Stooping in the fireplace

She held the pipe and steadily blew,

And the cold ashes grew warmer.

Slowly breath by breath

They turned to red,

And as she scattered broken twigs

From the old medlar tree out in the yard,

Which she had grown from a stone when a child,

And it had grown old with her,

The fire caught.

Red were the cinders now

And red were her cheeks

And bright were her eyes!

Perhaps some time, when least expected,

A wind may blow

On the cold, grey ashes here,

And put them to good use again,

And let them burn once more.