The coal stove and I
have reached an uneasy truce.
On Day Two, she began to belch
black smoke throughout the hut.
Like a petulant child
she would not respond to any attempt
to pull herself together
and burn a clean flame.
Smoke poured through
one broken top-plate.
Day Three, heart full of forgiveness,
I lovingly cleaned
the hellish webs of black soot
and coal tar that had formed
in her insides,
scrubbed her bright 50’s
happy-sky blue enamel face
with caramel custard doors.
Tentatively nudged her baffle
open or closed,
taking care not to repress
her free spirit,
lest she should deposit her
pall of darkness on us again.
I learned when to stop
fanning the flames,
when to walk away
let the heat die down.
When the kettles of creek water
could sing
and when to let them go quiet,
waiting for our return
in tepid contemplation.
I helped divert her rages
around her adamantine
square of oven
a stolid heart holding in it
slow-baked potatoes
fish pie
apple crumble
apricot sponge
a loaf of bread
for you.