My friend the Chimney

There’s a chimney out my window, on a roof across the street

It pokes through tiles of blackened slate, so shiny bright and neat

It’s frightened, lost and useless like a hun attending Mass

Or a diet sheet in a kitchen drawer that’s owned by Mamma Cass.

 

Remember spinning grannies, birlin round in gales

Remember toasting pieces, and nightly ghostly tales

Remember getting nit combed, our hair dried by its heat

Remember bitter winters as we toasted hands and feet.

 

Now all that’s left is me to stare and him to sit forlorn

All sense of usefulness now been from our wee sad lives shorn

Just him and me each morning greet each other at the dawn,

And then goodnight, as blinds are closed, another day is gone.

 

But one day we’ll be needed , when the world runs out of oil

When me with blackened features mine deep in Scotland’s soil

And 6 a.m means paper, sticks and brasso’ed coal being lit,

Then  sparks  and smoke shoot up the flue as round the fire we’ll sit.

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