Fiery

Fiery

In the quiet glow of the night‑time hearth,
a spark – a flick – a wild flash of colour
breaks the hush, and the air tastes of cinnamon.

It breathes, a whisper of old coal‑smoked tales,
a tempering of stone and the hiss of steam,
as if the forge itself were humming in metre
to the rhythm of a brass snare on a street‑corner dance.

The flame looms, a trembling banner of amber,
its fingers dancing over the edge of a teacup,
stirring a pot of seasoned broth,
and the phrase “fiery” becomes a favour, a forge‑kissed promise
to the night’s quiet ceramics, it’s a reminder

that even the simplest mundane moment,
the worn chair at the corner of a pub,
can ignite and grow, burning bright with compassion,
a spectacle of heat that invites you, come closer,
to feel the power and beauty of the fire inside.