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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