First, the ting-clang comforting din
of companion set with shovel
tuned to the scrape of grate and bucket then
fold, roll, wrap, tie, tuck it with sticks, with coal
till the glow of broadsheet rosettes
cast a news flash for the era
and headlines despatched themselves
from the hearth
immaculate hearth of the fire altar
lit by my mother, high priestess of the house
who, standing back decreed
that coal’s more like Slack, must speak to the coalman
