Ashes in the grate

 

Ashes in the grate

 

 

The ashes in the grate look 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 are still warm.

 

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.

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 smile and 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.