Laying the Fire
 |
| (Found here) |
I am downstairs early
looking for something to do
when I find my father on his knees
at the fireplace in the sitting-room
sweeping ash
from around and beneath the grate
with the soft brown hand-brush
he keeps especially for this.
Has he been here all night
waiting to catch me out?
So far as I can tell
I have done nothing wrong.
I think so again
when he calls my name
without turning round;
he must have seen me
with the eyes in the back of his head.
‘What’s the matter old boy?
Couldn’t sleep?’
His voice is kinder than I expect,
as though he knows
we have in common a sadness
I do not feel yet.
I skate towards him in my grey socks
over the polished boards of the sitting-room,
negotiating the rugs
with their patterns of almost-dragons.
He still does not turn round.
He is concentrating now
on arranging a stack of kindling
on crumpled newspaper in the fire basket,
pressing small lumps of coal
carefully between the sticks
as though he is decorating a cake.
Then he spurts a match,
and chucks it on any old how,
before spreading a fresh sheet of newspaper
over the whole mouth of the fireplace
to make the flames take hold.
Why this fresh sheet
does not also catch alight
I cannot think.
The flames are very close.
I can see them
and hear them raging
through yesterday’s cartoon of President Kennedy
and President Khrushchev
racing towards each other in their motorcars
both shouting
I’m sure he’s going to stop first!
But there’s no need to worry.
Everything
is just as my father wants it to be,
and in due time,
when the fire is burning nicely,
he whisks the newspaper clear,
folds it under his arm,
and picks up the dustpan
with the debris of the night before.
Has he just spoken to me again?
I do not think so. I
do not know.
I was thinking how neat he is.
I was asking myself:
will I be like this? How will I manage?
After that he chooses a log
from the wicker wood-basket
to balance on the coals,
and admires his handiwork.
When the time comes to follow him,
glide, glide over the polished floor,
he leads the way to the dustbins.
A breath of ash
pours continuously over his shoulder
from the pan he carries before him
like a man bearing a gift
in a picture of a man bearing a gift.
looking for something to do
when I find my father on his knees
at the fireplace in the sitting-room
sweeping ash
from around and beneath the grate
with the soft brown hand-brush
he keeps especially for this.
Has he been here all night
waiting to catch me out?
So far as I can tell
I have done nothing wrong.
I think so again
when he calls my name
without turning round;
he must have seen me
with the eyes in the back of his head.
‘What’s the matter old boy?
Couldn’t sleep?’
His voice is kinder than I expect,
as though he knows
we have in common a sadness
I do not feel yet.
I skate towards him in my grey socks
over the polished boards of the sitting-room,
negotiating the rugs
with their patterns of almost-dragons.
He still does not turn round.
He is concentrating now
on arranging a stack of kindling
on crumpled newspaper in the fire basket,
pressing small lumps of coal
carefully between the sticks
as though he is decorating a cake.
Then he spurts a match,
and chucks it on any old how,
before spreading a fresh sheet of newspaper
over the whole mouth of the fireplace
to make the flames take hold.
Why this fresh sheet
does not also catch alight
I cannot think.
The flames are very close.
I can see them
and hear them raging
through yesterday’s cartoon of President Kennedy
and President Khrushchev
racing towards each other in their motorcars
both shouting
I’m sure he’s going to stop first!
But there’s no need to worry.
Everything
is just as my father wants it to be,
and in due time,
when the fire is burning nicely,
he whisks the newspaper clear,
folds it under his arm,
and picks up the dustpan
with the debris of the night before.
Has he just spoken to me again?
I do not think so. I
do not know.
I was thinking how neat he is.
I was asking myself:
will I be like this? How will I manage?
After that he chooses a log
from the wicker wood-basket
to balance on the coals,
and admires his handiwork.
When the time comes to follow him,
glide, glide over the polished floor,
he leads the way to the dustbins.
A breath of ash
pours continuously over his shoulder
from the pan he carries before him
like a man bearing a gift
in a picture of a man bearing a gift.
~Andrew Motion
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