To glowing embers, dying but not yet dead, is added the
shaking out of black and cold refreshment. The waiting starts, but not for
long. The smoke begins to curl, shyly at first, until it grows in confidence
and swells to a mass of thronging thickness rushing upwards to an unseen
heaven. Fledgling flames creep and peep between the gaps as the base beneath
the black stuff brightens ever brighter. Soft sparks jump like electric fleas; poppings
and crackings and spittings join the chorus; plumes of smoke, driven by gasses
trapped for millennia, stream free and unrestrained from individual coals to
add their gay abandon to the rushing slate grey torrent. And then, to bring the
celebration to a climax, the flames that once were creeping and peeping begin
to dance, growing more and more populace and humming a single note that sings
of warmth and the sustenance of life.
There are moves afoot to aim for a carbon free future. Coal
is to be consigned to the fate of the steam engine; another piece of life’s
little romance is to be taken from us. Necessary as this might be for the sake
of the planet and the health of close-closeted populations, I can’t help but
feel sad for future generations in a sanitized world, denied the joy felt by ancestors
who delighted in being warmed by the natural comfort of real flame.
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