Annaleen Erasmus

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

BUT THEN

Hear it, feel it, smell it:
Torrents of flame chased by fury.

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