Red Shoes

It’s Friday night.
The fire-lighter’s back.

It’s late.
He’s had a drink.

With the skill of a god
he makes new life in the grate.

She’s asleep, perhaps,
in the tie-me-down bed

but she sparks when the cap
of his boot strikes the stair.

She scents his smoky finger-pads,
his malted breath

and that other child
who lives inside

ignites; flies to the woods
her feet enflamed.

in response to Steven Bayley’s composition Fire
Go to the writer’s page

Copyright © 2013, Hilary Hares

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