
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
bombastic
a chain reaction
of fate,
causation
rotates it:
in this frivolous state.
Crowds line,
gawp up unblinking;
the wise, the enamoured,
the gormless, the thinking.