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we tell horror stories

holding one another’s hands,

sitting around fires in the open air

 

for our houses have been destroyed.

 

the air is smoky, but that’s not from us

bigger fires are burning elsewhere

fires that end stories,

fires that turn hands to dust. 

 

we live now in white tents

beneath a blackening sky,

like a marshmallow held over flames for too long

when will we crack?

 

there is sewerage in the streets,

the water is dirty,

my mobile phone signal flickers,

my Instagram feed is not loading,

we are falling off the grid, gradually then

 

everything goes quiet. the quiet is what 

I used to love most about camping.

Ash Dowling

The author Ash Dowling

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