THREE BROTHERS

Three, brothers, older now, greyer and
slower talk of the day gone by. The
open fire almost fills the eastern wall,
a flamed cavern carved into the stone.
The black kettle, the size of a small
cauldron dangles above the heat, always
on the boil. Another sod is thrown
in and the sparks rise up, flecks of
light escaping up the chimney passage.
The tending of the fire is a

science, no, an art. The placing
of a sod here, then there, the alchemy
of keeping the flame alive, keeping
the heat in the old, crumbling home.
They stayed in that house as long
as they could, until age and infirmity
called them one by one.
First the eldest, the thinker, the clean-shaven.
When they walked their land, listening
to their cattle, divining the soil and

the clouds he was the interpreter.
Next was the youngster, the boy, the
beard. He was the carer though the
others did not realise and neither did he.
Then the middle, the moustache, the
socialite. He who craved company
the most was left alone. He didn’t stay long.
The fire went out, the huge hearth no longer
emitted the heat of before. The house stood alone.
Cold.