.
red warning by Jan Jones
the walls of the house are warm
the bedroom smells of hot ironed sheets
outside, baked air stirs in a slow waltz
but this is England
my house is made of old, cold stone
the last time I ironed sheets was 1974
grief lies like a blanket
the earth in the garden is shrinking
stones and bulbs stranded on the surface
and I wonder
is this what the end of days is like?
the walls of the house are warm
.