Birthed in a blood-orange haze,
a torture of sound batters my ears; 
the front-running wind - howling dervish,
whipped into a firestorm frenzy.


Potato-and-earth smell 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.


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.



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