My dad

 

 

A seven o’clock Saturday sixties sofa

Wrapped in a dressing gown and slippers against the window ice,

The sun presents its crown but the day has not yet begun.

 

Clearing yesterday’s white and grey grate

The dust hangs heavy in the air,

Caught in the yellow lamplight piercing through the gap in the curtains.

 

Rolled up print, kindling and coal

A small flame begins its journey from the razor edge of the paper,

Blackening progress through the ink of yesterday’s excitements.

 

Prometheus revealed from behind the cover pages of last night’s Oldham Chronicle,

A coal shovel and artisan's hands pin down the back draft,

Then all consumed as small charcoal messages disappear upwards.

 

As family awoke the house became home again

And the fire was warm and safe,

Many a cave made home with this ritual.

 

The fire burned through the day

Tended by family and friends, Auntie Annie, the Royal Liver Man,

Laughter, tears, letters, scraps of food, gossip all floated up the memory chimney.

 

By the afternoon the quiet anthracite crackle

Kept loved ones close,

Sometimes the heat warmed the hearts of many.

 

As the day played out there were those who moved away,

Settling in the shadows of the corners of the room, always there but seldom seen,

Briefly silhouetted by the dancing light of the flames.

 

Sometimes the noise descended, returning to the hiss of a discarded piece of sandwich

Carelessly tossed into the coals, sizzle, spit, crack and gone,

And then there was just the two of us.

 

At night time we sat together watching the embers glow,

Occasionally you would toss memories of a rough and tumble childhood

Into the red and black, to be instantly consumed by brilliant yellow.

 

Other memories, Park Drive, a forest of trees that built solid homes and hearths for others,

This sweat and toil built other bonfires of past craftsmanship,

And old men mourned the passing of that solid quality.

 

Zephyrs, homemade sweaters, dizzy drunken parties,

Caravan holidays and Banner Man, all recalled and offered to the flames

We sat and talked in quiet hypnotic drone until our eyes burned and yearned for sleep.

 

Then the cold of the morning awoke me,

With breath condensed I looked around and you were gone

And the sadness filled the marrow of my cold bones.

 

Then I bent down towards the luke warm ash,

Cleared the grate of the white and grey,

And dust once more hung heavy in the air.

 

I rolled the paper as you had done,

I placed the coal and kindling on top as you had done,

I scraped the match head across the sandpaper as you had done.

 

As the flames sprung into life I saw a small beautiful chesty Chorlton-Cum-Hardy lad

Sat on the edge of the sofa, I beckoned him close, held tight his small shoulders

And we felt our faces redden against the inferno of the warm dawn.

 

I, like you, have tended my fire,

At times the flames were weak and other times its glorious noisy glow frightened all,

Loved ones helped to stoke and poke and stack the grate.

 

But only you taught me how to light that fire, the little chap from Chorlton-Cum-Hardy,

He’s warm to his core now and moves away from the flames

Into the shadows of the corners of the room, always there but seldom seen.