Kiera slept soundly,
As the night.
She was beautiful, on the pale blue pillow.
Now, it was seven years.
There had been other women, and a few men.
Kiera had tripped
On the church steps,
When a piece of stone
Beneath her foot.
They stood together, thinking of the colder days ahead. No school groups came
When Kiera’s mother died,
They knelt on the cold cushions.
Donna’s bore a green-gold tree, Kiera’s some other pattern.
From beneath Donna’s knee
As they pushed to their feet,
A chunk of ceiling crashed, leaving them coughing
And spluttering in the dust.
‘God!’ Kiera shrieked.