Homage to the woodburner

In the warmer months the woodburner sits there cold and lifeless. As the summer rolls by its glass front merely reflects my face with indifference. It waits, still on its sturdy legs, biding its time, confident in its future role. Ever discreet, ever present, it bears witness to the hub of the house, this keeper of secrets. So quiet I might forget that it’s there.
But, as summery memories fade away and the air turns dense with a cold that creeps up my sleeves and down my collar, I take it out of hibernation and into animation once again. It brings my senses alive. I hear the pops, the heat roaring, the wood splitting and the tick tick ticking of expanding metal. I can see the shimmering orange lava-like glow of the burning logs. I can smell fresh wood, my vanilla candle and the slight whiff of firelighters on my fingers. I can feel my face flushed with a radiant heat and my mouth turn dry as I lie on the hearth rug staring mesmerised into the porthole. I see the carpet fibres up close as I slowly turn like a pig on a spit. As my back takes its turn to warm I look at the gap under the door from where the draft of cooler air comes to slide like a silk scarf over any bare skin. I can think ahead to putting up the Christmas tree, the utter frivolity of sparkly things. Bliss.
I’m one of the lucky ones.
Crisis.org.uk, Shelter.org.uk, or to help local folk in particular Maggsdaycentre.co.uk