Vestal Crone

In her late sixties now,
kneeling before the Iron box
glass-fronted,
soot stained,
she opens the door,

She faces 
the remnants
of an old fire’s ashes
left by he,
who the night before,
wove the magic
of metal on metal
striking the spark
to open the flames,
but he is not present now,
on a cold afternoon
when she and the night-black cat
desire the comfort 
and warmth of the dancing flames.

So, on her knees,
she cleans the glass,
the cloth taking the soot
to itself and leaving
the way clear
to see the fire’s glory.

Rolling up lengths of newspaper,
and wringing them like wet rags,
the deeds and misdemeanors
of days past 
squashed and rumpled,
are placed carefully
on the ash-bed,
a bit of thin kindling added,
and cotton ball
teased and pulled apart
complete the preparations,
awaiting only the striking
of metal to metal.

Spark, spark,
sparksparkspark
and the kindling catches,
now she feeds 
the slightly larger 
bits of wood,
and last of all
the fire logs,
and the door is closed,
secured
as flames dance.

Time to give thanks
for the gift of fire,
and begin the vigil
so the flames do not
splutter,
glow brightly,
die – 
for this is her true job,
to maintain the fire
for the day
to take off the chill,
to gladden the heart,
to challenge the cold of winter,
until the night comes
and in time the fire
is allowed to fall away
into glowing embers
and at finally to grey ash
for the night.

Until, 
the morrow, 
when fire is once more 
coaxed to life
in the iron box,
glass-fronted,
soot stained.