fetching the firewood

all through the sogginess of winter
with the water high
above my heels
I carted the rounds of sliced timber

knotted rotten or smooth
I moved them
load upon load

once
into the barrow
once
into the cart
once more
into the barrow
then last
into a pile
a bloody great big pile
of a former tree
that I could hardly stand
to look at
anymore

filled
with witchety grubs
overflowing
white ants
acrawl
with slater bugs
and centipedes

some geckoes

and now
the weather smiling
and the ground firm
under my feet again
I take my splitting tool in hand
to separate each round
into component firewood

each round
into a sweet sigh
when it’s cold out

yes it’s true
what my father told me
those years ago

that wood
my son
that wood is going to warm you
five times
before it’s gone

but by my count
it’s six

---

© Frank Prem, 2016