The crunch of snow Recalls me to a familiar scene, That remind me of purring, Wooden beams and pillars Shattering beneath the columns of flame. The snowflakes, falling, cosy up to wooden silhouettes of houses, Gigantic housecats tumbling in snow-dune deserts. They shine under the sun’s mischievous glare. Pale contrast to the ash-snow that fell before. That snow spawned black devil-cats That danced around the wooden buildings. Their fiery string spooling out into the long night, Their scratching-post sparks igniting the sky. These snowflakes bring a different kind of sting, Biting as viciously as the hot sear of ash. Unloading soggy clothes, A watercolour catches my eyes. The uneven blurred strokes conjure the yowls that poured out from the night. Pockmark sparks dance behind closed eyelids, The never-ending flash of white on black canvasses. These images will never fade. Burned-brand memories last Like long-healing claw-mark scars, The smell of blood not long forgotten. I still recall the mechanical shrieks that sent the Thatch-fur roofs into a frightened frenzy – With so many fire-struck whiskers erupting into flames in the night.