In the heart of Bealtaine, where winter winds blow,
The wood stove is humming with a deep, amber glow.
Outside, the frost feathers the glass of the pane,
But inside is a sanctuary, safe from the rain.
The dry logs of ash and the seasoned old oak,
Release their sweet scent in a thin curl of smoke.
The hearth is the heartbeat, the pulse of the room,
Defying the chill and the gathering gloom.
The kettle is singing a low, steady song,
As the shadows of evening grow heavy and long.
With a flicker of orange and a crackle of heat,
The spirit of summer and winter fires meet.
Wrapped in the warmth of the iron and stone,
The soul finds a stillness it calls its own.
Though the garden lies sleeping in silver and white,
The stove keeps the flame of the cottage alight.
Colette O’Neill, December 2023
