The Old Fire Place

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The Old Fire Place

Running through the house
naked and wet
from the nightly bath,
towel-wrapped
I flop in front
of the log fire.

Flames are flicking
logs into a
cheerful glow,
warmth drying
my body.

I am rubbed dry
by my mother
and snuggle
into special
winter pyjamas.

In reflection
layers of memory shine,
warmth
love
belonging
cradle me still
from the old fire place.