Red Warning

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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

 

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