Christmas Bells on Ash Wednesday
I.
Birthed in a blood-orange haze,
a torture of sound batters my ears;
the front-running wind - that howling dervish,
whipped into a firestorm frenzy.
II.
Potato-and-earth invades our tub, drifting down
from wet sacks above. A fort, Mum said,
before she left. She's thrice returned,
refilling her bucket to battle the Embers.
I hold my wooden sword close
in case they come for my brothers.
III.
As I wander the rubble, a stone chimney topples;
my boots are cloaked with death. By one cracked toe,
life pushes through: a red-orange hood,
tipped with gold. Christmas Bells ring
in my playground of ash.
Ryan Stone