How quickly the threat of fire delineates,
how fast it distiguishes true value,

This small house, egostitically settled, 
shivers at the thought.

I gather photographs and consider 
what would burn - more than 'Jamesborough Gold,'

More than books and careful decor.
Strange things, esoteric, would burn:

Evaporated sweat, 
purified through restless labour.

Dreams and designs,
the whispers of hope.

Inconsequential memories.
Familiar smells and atmosphere.

Strange things irreplacable would burn.

One storm passes and this nights fear settles,
like dust, among other unassuming memories...