This ground is iced crisp, dried out party cake.
Salt-crusted and ready for the bin.
I walk, dead.
The lines of sky and earth have blurred out black,
Matt paint laid on too thick.
The hole in the heart of décor.
Since long, the stars are too tired to twinkle,
And there’s no horizon to roll back,
No curtains to draw.
The sky has no songs left to sing me.
Bridges, pylons, tower blocks rise uncompromising in their angles,
High wired and practical,
The ugliness of where we’ve got to.
Blood blots clot the clouds,
Somewhere a pulse still patters desperate.
But dawn is just another dirty streak,
Grey water wet on pavements,
Forgotten in a footstep.
Another will come.
On that we can rely.