The Turf Bucket

The Turf Bucket

by Marty Fahey

Tall, solitary-unbowed

Gleaming brass and mahogany milled

at the ready, standing proud in the corner

just waiting to be filled.

Of purpose so singular, but,

of this there is no doubt,

It must never go empty

lest the hearth fires burn out.

A servant’s job always

like the clocks to be wound

Dried turf brought here daily

from deep in the ground.

Set ablaze, glowing brightly

damp and darkness it removes

Humble earth from the Bog

yet so much it improves.

A warmth without equal

to banish the gloom

And sweet smells it proffers

as it perfumes all the rooms.