The Pig Meadow

Marguerite Daises held tight,
amongst the ivy and creepers.
Wet, wood stung our noses.
Cindered dolls, eyes blackened,
broken faces aged with soot.
Our patchwork quilt, chewed at the edge.
The front of our ship had holes now,
a blanket sail swung feebly.
Still standing, not even fire could sink it.
We had watched the waves batter and bruise it.
Granny threw old rugs to protect it
doused in water to drown the flames.
It was over quickly just as it had started.
our game still intact.