Lighting the first log fire

The logs have been stacked against the wall of The Old School House all year - becoming the home of spiders - tiny hermits hiding within the crevices between the logs

Leaves from the apple tree are blown over the grass - whirling in the air - they drift against the stack of logs - I hold a leaf in my hand - it's yellowy green and as dry as bone

The logs have been drenched with rain - warmed by the sun - now they have been taken inside, dried out on the dark tiles of the fireplace - laid on top of a layer of glinting coals - kindling beneath - fistfuls of fir cones placed by the sides of the logs

I aim to light the fire with just one match - and whoop with joy when I succeed - looking at the steamy smoke coming off the coals - the kindling crackling and bursting into flames - the logs catching, and becoming bright yellow brands

This marks for me the coming of winter - as does having to wear socks - I swore a great oath that I would never wear socks again - they were a mark of servitude, of a pale apparatchik - but having tried to wear boat shoes without socks in icy rain, I was defeated in my resolve

Now, I look at the fire - I think of all the houses in London lit and warmed by coal fires in the time of steam trains, gas jets and Sherlock Holmes - I also think of the young man in The Monkey's Paw, throwing his whiskey upon the fire, having seen a horrible face inside the embers