Flame

Flame

In dark our fumbling, frozen, limbs.
 No water, heat or light.
When no-one came, your humble gifts, 
became our noon and night. 

An early start, you spat and hissed,
 A shock in almost dark. 
As battered pots and candle stubs,
Forced, like your coals, to spark. 

You heaved your dusty layers; 
As paper's edges turn.
A glow of something hopeful,
 A snap, a will, to burn.


Where once, just an aesthetic,
Ignored, a dusty hearth.
Now, holding close these bodies;
Dressed in your smoky bath.

Helplessly we gather, 
Forced as close as breath.
Cold limbs, swiftly peeling,
pulled from a night warmed nest.

As your warmth grows much stronger 
So too now are we, 
Curled hands round old tin teacups,
Hot water boiled for tea. 

And, laughing as you bring us,
The breakfast of a king.
It’s charring all the better, 
Such pleasure this meal brings.

While damp socks softly sizzle,
We bask on cushioned beds.
Your coat of coal and kindling
Is like us, nourished,  fed.

A weighted room- like- blanket
Sated, cosy thawed, 
Nowhere yet to get to, 
Curled here on the floor. 

Flames now hypnotising, 
Shifting shape and mood.
Glowing, orange, hero.
Gifts of heat and food. 

Lights back on, they flicker,
Melting freezers hum.
But, we might simply lie here
Getting nothing done.