by Caitlan Hill

The cold air bites like fear
My hands ice hard grasp the grains and pack them like powder
Momentarily they are sands between my fingers
Later to be fire which will break bones and breath
The wind whispers revolution, its soft snuffle wheedles like politicians’ promises
Window panes bend as I look out on a fading autumn day
Leaves laugh like conspirators as they shuffle soft against damp earth
I smile as the London skies redden with dusk’s glow
Then stuff my bundle deep into dark pockets and slip into shadows
The Roman resolution ready as a prayer
Parliament looms, a ghost against the fading horizon
I am the chasm in the tunnels of their tomorrows
I grasp the gunpowder and guide my plotters through passages which twist below chambers
We thirteen, eyes bright as torches in the dark hollows
Cheeks flushed with courage like a Judas kiss