Reflection & Poetry | Winter Fuel | 6 October 2026

There is a familiar shift that takes place as autumn deepens and the first sharp edge of winter air begins to press against the windowpanes. Preparing for the cold months ahead is rarely just a matter of domestic logistics; it is a quiet transition of the mind and spirit—a deliberate turning inward.

When we heave the timber inside, clear a corner of the room, and stack the fuel, we are engaging in a small domestic liturgy. There is a grounded, physical honesty to it. The body warms to the work long before any fire is lit, generating its own heat through the rhythmic, deliberate effort of carrying and storing. In that physical exertion, the mental chatter of the week narrows down to something simple and tangible: the weight of a log, the dry scent of sawdust and pressed olive stone, and the quiet satisfaction of seeing a store take shape.  

To prepare the hearth is to build a sanctuary against the coming dark. It is an honest acknowledgment of our physical vulnerability before the wind, frost, and rain—balanced by a quiet confidence in the simple provisions we have brought under our roof. A neat stack of firewood in the corner becomes far more than mere fuel; it stands as a visual promise of future warmth, a tangible counterweight to whatever storms may blow outside.  

As the light shortens, this outward preparation invites an inner stillness. Like the monastic rhythms of an island cell, simple, repetitive chores anchor us in the present moment, turning routine domestic labour into an act of contemplation. Speaking a blessing over the hearth reminds us that home is meant to be a sanctuary for both the body and the soul.  

We gather the season’s store, tidy the corner, and prepare the hearth—knowing that with peace within and storm without, there is light enough to keep the cold at bay.  

A Hearth Blessing

A crate of wood was brought today,
The wrapping stripped away;
Three bags of olive briquette fuel
We carried in to stay. 

The kitchen corner now stands clear,
Prepared to take its share;
We heaved inside a sixth of all,
And stacked it neatly there.

The labour warmed us as we worked
Before a fire was lit;
Like brothers in some island cell,
We turned ourselves to it.

Against the coming winter nights,
The wind, the frost, the rain,
We gathered now the season's store
For hearth and heart again.

May Brigid bless the warming flame,
And Christ the house enfold;
With peace within and storm without,
And love against the cold.

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Written this evening after Andrew and I stocked up on fuel for the next few weeks.

Copyright

© Michael McFarland Campbell, 2026.