It’s the embers,
Yearning to sweep through the proud
Clinging to last season’s self-righteous glory.
A slow burn – braving storm after storm;
Thunderous orders to stay down, stay put, stay out-of-sight;
Indifferent rains washing out every hopeful spark.
Still it smoulders on.
And beneath the bursts of sunshine that all is fine,
Flames are gathering.
First with silent sufferance,
Then with stirring condemnation,
Now with shaking fury,
They rise up until the horizons ignite
Into the fire they have become,
Roaring for long overdue change
And recognition in the rich colours
They bring to the world.

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