The narrow road winds into a loop.
The billowing white clouds of smoke,
Are on my left. On my right, the dried up
reservoir.
The grass on either side is yellow,
Dry and brittle as ancient, fine fish bones.
In trepidation I drive towards the fire,
Praying the flames have not touched
My home, my cats, my life, my everything.
Relieved, for high on the bank, only shrubs
burn strongly, but controllably.
I pass the cars and the people, who have
fought the flames valiantly.
With spot on precision, the helicopters
discharge their precious cargo.
They are whirling messengers of mercy
snatching water from the sea.
Grey showers descend from the sky, dousing
the invading uninvited sparks.
Leaving only ash over Akrounta and over a
large part of Limassol.