Smoke

Smoke

In the hush of dawn, a thin grey veil
rises from the hearth, a quiet breath
of burnt pine and distant ember,
curling like whispered secrets
that slip through the fingers of morning.

It drifts over the cobbled lane,
painting the sky with fleeting charcoal
streaks, a transient watercolour
that the wind reluctantly releases
before it fades into the azure.

Each tendril is a fugitive thought,
escaping the grasp of memory,
a reminder that even the most solid
flame yields to the air’s soft insistence,
leaving behind only the scent
of warmth and the faint echo
of what once burned bright.

Now the room settles, the fire low,
and the smoke, having done its quiet work,
lingers like a modest applause,
then dissolves, leaving the night
to breathe again in clean, unchanged
stillness.