Red flags like pools of blood
We listened at the keyhole Papa
talking to Mama and Aunt Catherine
They talk of Bolsheviks
drinking blood from such as us
we must leave for Paris soon
even in the depth of winter
snow covering the ground
Mama heavily pregnant
We hear a sound and rush to our chairs
Papa strides into the room
He never walks as a mere mortal
mantled in riches and power
his giant moustaches the best
that ever decorated the winter palace
We dress in old ragged clothes and
board the wagon pulled
by two mismatched nags
into the icy forrest
we trek moving towards
the end of Kotlin island
where the jetty joins it to
the mainland
a Danish steamer and sanctuary
will be waiting if luck is with us.
Converging Lives. Sounds, Silence and Imagery 