Hillfire.

Under the heavy lidded morning sky,
you took a photo of me, serious faced and
tan shouldered.
Our limbs were tired
from a night without sleep, where
sirens pealed and people shouted.

A hillfire.
They said it was moving towards an old petrol station,
and unexploded shells from the war pinged high.

We watched it, cloaked in smoke;
watched as men darted about with buckets,
pale attempts to dampen the ground.
Across the headland we saw more fires break out, streaking
up hills and clawing to the sky.
As tourists, we feared the worst,
but the neighbours, locals,
still sat in their apartment and played cards, sipping
ouzo and chuckling at us.

By morning the fire was out.
The scrubby hill next to our apartment stood
black, charred, smoking;
embers hiding their fight.
But an amber sky snowed ash -
little tiny pieces that melted on hot skin.
It fell soft, and brown,
like baby moths.
I rubbed the ash between my fingers until it disappeared,
not wanting the reminder.

 
















Photo by Jill Morgan.