Men and women. 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 still have warmth.

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 steadily blew,

And the cold ashes grew warmer.

Slowly breath by breath

They turned to red,

And then 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 aged with her,

And the fire caught.

Red were the cinders then

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,

And they will burn once more

And be useful.