The Palace burned

1980

When the Palace burned,

on the windowsill shelf running along

the length of our room, I remember

the corner I sat in, curled, back against

the wall.

We’d grown up mostly

on Blitz, Armageddon and Holocaust,

so mushroom clouds might have been the end

 - the universe always saying

something, nothing built stands forever, and you –

through the smoke, reaching out

to check if the glass was melting,

if the door was locked, if we

might need anything.