The Tunnel

Curved concrete compressed air pockets,
leaves blew in from a neglected park
and I ran for my life. And for theirs.
I clutched one on my left hip, one on my right.
Love never stronger than this moment,
blanking arthritis, gout and atheism.
I had to move and I did. My grandchildren,
chased by toxic mists that burst behind us.
My daughter's last wish as earth melted down,
'Mother, take them to the old world,
set them free.' And I found a way back
to forests and uncontaminated streams
as my heart broke boundaries into faith
that they would be redeemed, live on.