Fingers of flame caressing the black and grey logs,
Eagerly munching with crackles and pops on the fuel that keeps it alive.
Warming the atmosphere to push out the cold.
Burning brightly in it's outdoor throne,
of rusted iron and ancient stone.
The vines that once kept the fire makers at bay
have, since then, been cleared away.
The occasional tribute of paper
from those sitting round
pleases the beast in the circle's center.