Fire Red

Slashed with colour,

the flag, it flies

stashed with a flair

it groans on its rise

and it makes a sound

of cold, hard thunder

with every

stunted breaststroke;

shadows a-dancing

wrapped cord all a-choke.

Lined gold and


a chain reaction

of fate,


rotates it:

in this frivolous state.

Crowds line,

gawp up unblinking;

the wise, the enamoured,

the gormless, the thinking.


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