It feels like blood, slithering down
It is sometimes hot, sometimes warm.
Acrid maybe, or a pungent smell,
Once recognised, it isn’t hard to tell.
It could burn your tongue; or be completely sweet,
It is festive and happy, like a child’s treat.
You can hear it rushing, like a city bus,
You can hear it soaring in a robin’s flight,
The sign of danger, cautioning your tread,
This is how it looks, the colour red.