It feels
like blood, slithering down
It is
sometimes hot, sometimes warm.
Acrid maybe,
or a pungent smell,
Once
recognised, it isn’t hard to tell.
It could
burn your tongue; or be completely sweet,
It is
festive and happy, like a child’s treat.
You can hear
it rushing, like a city bus,
You can hear
it soaring in a robin’s flight,
The sign of
danger, cautioning your tread,
This is how
it looks, the colour red.
