You sit by the heavy oak door.
Bare feet on a cold earthen floor.
The peat burns a low steady gold.
A story that never grows old.
Smoke climbs to the canopy high.
Grey ribbons across a dark sky.
The pine needles catch every glow.
While the winter winds steadily blow.
You stir the thick porridge in clay.
To keep the sharp winter away.
The thatch holds the heat in the room.
The wool on the heavy hand loom.
Smoke climbs to the canopy high.
Grey ribbons across a dark sky.
The pine needles catch every glow.
While the winter winds steadily blow.
You watch as the embers turn white.
Deep in the belly of night.
The resin smells sharp in the air.
A shelter for those who still care.
Smoke climbs to the canopy high.
Grey ribbons across a dark sky.
The pine needles catch every glow.
While the winter winds steadily blow.
You lean on the rough timber wall.
Waiting for the autumn to fall.
The forest is heavy and green.
The quietest place you have seen.
Smoke climbs to the canopy high.
Grey ribbons across a dark sky.
The pine needles catch every glow.
While the winter winds steadily blow.
Just a ribbon in the pine.
Keep the hearth fire in line.
