The red moon rises
as the house of the sun sets.
Driving home from the sea in the dark
I am holding no one’s hand.
I know this route so well.
I’m the child falling asleep in the backseat.
Mum blamed the sea air.
One Sunday we made devil’s food cake
and came to the strand.
Over the bridge now,
past the river and the abbey
the house of a late writer is in flames,
flames that lick the dusk sky
with smoke billowing upwards.
A crowd has gathered by a fire engine
at the crossroads.
I imagine she will always
be with me on these journeys
echoing forgotten, prophetic words,
my memory of her incombustible.
I’d come back for my notebooks,
the enchantment of words,
and the dogs, I’d come back for them.
If your house was burning
what would you take with you?