<p>Reading <i>Laying the Fire</i>, Andrew Motion</p>
<p>My father managed
<br>logs and ash</p>
<p>on chilled mornings
<br>in the suburbs</p>
<p>scraping
<br>the fire place clean</p>
<p>with a soft brush
<br>and shovel</p>
<p>fit for purpose.
<br>He swept carefully</p>
<p>holding his breath
<br>so as not to breathe</p>
<p>the inevitable
<br>delicate dust</p>
<p>of yesterday’s briquettes
<br>and wood.</p>
<p>And when done
<br>he held up a sheet</p>
<p>of newsprint
<br>in front of the new</p>
<p>meticulous pile
<br>of twigs and paper,</p>
<p>willing a new day’s
<br>fire to spark and catch.</p>
<p>He was confident
<br>in this manly practice—</p>
<p>knew the ropes.
<br>But any familial hopes</p>
<p>he had about certitude
<br>peace or quiet</p>
<p>were burnt most days
<br>as small domestic</p>
<p>catastrophes
<br>rose in flames,</p>
<p>leaving nothing
<br>but grey ash.</p>
-
Meanjin
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