Pine trees are always green –
staunchly retaining their colour
season in, season out.
There is a breeze, cooling hot cheeks,
tentative, apologetic –
quivering in silver beeches.
Gentle movement of leaves
transforms them to massive mobiles
Wide-winged swallows and swifts
are carried across the skyline
Hear it, feel it, smell it:
Torrents of flame chased by fury.