Burning Omaha

All summer it was like a miracle,

the dust coating cars and running

your finger through sand they said

had blown in from the Sahara.

Drivers cursed. It was a summer

of talk. Of incidents, evacuations,

populations gridlocking ring roads,

four-minute warnings, the hottest season

of their Cold War. We didn’t care.

We were racing through the woods

while parents stocked up on tins

and candles and stared at the radio

with palms against their throats

as if by suddenly tightening their grip

they could hold their little faith in.

There was no rain, only sand,

only sand coming down like scurf,

like unexpected snow from Archangel,

like the ashes from Omaha burning.

Tom Phillips

'Burning Omaha' from 'Recreation Ground' (Two Rivers Press, 2012)