Where There Is Smoke

Feathers of a charcoal fist,
puncturing an old cityscape,
with ochre ribbon pulsed
in flame-streaked shadow.
And ballet-spun sisters of 
sizzling licks, flicks of legs,
not bound to flesh, will dance,
streaming smoke from 
pebbled beaches and 
Solent shores; here where
things light up, where 
things are beautiful 
in the moment.
Miss. Bonfire eyes, 
I see the fire engulfing me.

The End

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