Slippered feet on the stone hearth,
feeling the glow. Across our street,
the sky rested on rooftops, heavy,
full of a solstice harvest, hanging.
I was drowning in heat, like a Christmas
pudding drenched in brandy. Then I heard
a sizzle, a crunch, felt fire
licking my hair, hugging my back.
Before I was engulfed by fear
and flames, she threw me on the floor,
rolled me in the mat,
brandy-snapped and smoke-smothered.
Christmas morning, the clouds were bright and empty.
Among the presents was a dressing gown
as white as snow, folded neatly, ribbon-bowed, and labelled
one hundred percent brushed cotton.
Gaynor Kane lives in Belfast, Northern Ireland. She came to writing late in life, after finishing her
Open University BA(Hons) degree with a creative writing module in 2015. Mainly a writer of poetry,
she has had work published in journals and anthologies in the UK, Ireland and America…
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