A Secret Hearth
There’s a secret hearth in every hall,
CG Ragnar Crafoord
which thaws life in all who heed it.
A hallow home for bellows’ breath,
and no god nor man to impede it.
It takes thought to kindle its fire,
and will to make the flames roar.
Stir deep in chest a rumble –
a sphere of embers, inhaled whole.
Singe life with golden lining.
Beam warmth at former foes.
Burn with zeal and fervor.
Blaze through cindered bricks of soul.
Tempered by innate flame,
light in man embrace.
Go gleam unbidden,
spread warmth without a trace.
Then die being stoked,
ash-blown, wind-swept.
Scorched door open,
in kiln, nothing kept.
Smouldered in.
Ash grown.
was fire,
not cold stone.