The bromine coloured dust
layered up through the glowing hemisphere;
purple finger clouds,
veneered on a scarlet background,
claw like sand banks on an empty sea.
An upside down rock band of cloud,
heated orange by a hidden sun,
stretches over to the other,
house ridden line.
A lonely star blinks between cottonwoolclouds
like a ship,
lost in living wildersea.
Behind a tree laced skyline,
the charnel house of the city
erects probing fingers to expel the burning town.
Fresh, fluorescent smog,
rises to the air, making silver lining for natural counterfeits.
Brushed bowlers get in their stride;
invade the tubes;
invade the office;
but stagnant.
A million seniles thrive on breakfast papers,
urged on by domicile wives:
outside lively juveniles decide to miss school,
smoking dinner-money cigarettes,
swearing at old ladies on the bus:
time of mourning.
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