Christmas in Kyiv

Christmas in Kiev

A short break in the nightly bombardment – peace

of sorts. A woman searches in the only corner left

of her destroyed bedroom open to the pitch black

with just the hum of many generators (Thank God)

breaking the reassuring silence. A gaping hole exposes

all to the now-clear sky. No moon to light the enemy way.

Tonight she will wear bright colours, gather in Independence

Square and dance in defiance remembering her carefree

youth. Her gay costume will fit because stress and hunger

have been her constant diet. Somewhere under the rubble,

it’s safe in a Novus bag. Unlike her bed. She had cowered

in her bathroom, as soon as she heard distant explosions.

A small smile of gratitude is quickly replaced by a feeling

so strong when she thinks of family, friends who can’t join her.

Tears flood her eyes making it harder for her to find the outfit.

Reminding her of days spent sorting through piles of concrete,

bricks, dust, broken furniture, trying to salvage anything useful…

Burnt and torn photos, bent cutlery. Lives ruined, everyone

desperate to find something they treasured so all is not lost.

A stray beam from outside sweeps the pile, catching the blue

and yellow ribbons, embroidery on a blouse and woven sash

spilling from a plastic bag in the pile. Yes! Her heart leaps.

Back in the dark corner, fingers brush her hair, smooth her dress,

find the other shoe. Feet carefully feel, down what is left of steps.

An old neighbour smiles in the darkness, he eyes the flower crown

with glee. “Slava Ukraini!” Her heart swells with pride, thinking

of her son in the frozen fields, God knows where, defending their

precious land and its people. She replies proudly: “Heroiam Slava!”

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2025