The end of Second Summer's day
When rain and snow have ceased to be
Will see the end of our delay
And mark the death of our decree.

Elsewhere the despondent souls
Of smoke-stacks rise up from the coals...

As plastic melts beneath the glare
And long the Dream was dashed ashore,
Then will smog-clouds light the air
And cast the fires across the moor.

... Then, far beyond, the wand'ring mirth
Will strike the land, and scorch the Earth...

Until the sky is raised in flame
We'll walk the trail of frail regrets,
And once the world glows hot with shame
Shame will then our end beget.

... And so our doing will blaze the sky
By MMXXVII.

A cloud of smoke and fog so toxic
They had to give it a name.
Out here, it coils around signs
And slinks up the height of buses:
Keen and watchful, like a python,
Squeezing the life from

My lungs. Heavy with ash
And tar from the cigarettes.
The fumes snake upwards,
Swirling in fog, smog,
Ashen clouds. There's a sight
For sore minds.

Sleeping commuters leave
Ghostly auras amidst
The foggy plastic windows.
They slumber through
The booming snore
Of exhaust-pipes, choking smoke.

Silence. Or closest to.
Even stopped, the Bus roars,
Patiently brooding, growling,
As a wolf in the underbrush
Watching the crimson lights, sharp
Like blood on a pavement.

A small cat, uncollared,
Sprints across the road
But is pounced upon.
The wheels creak,
Commuters stir, and the Bus
Stalks away into the night.

Last weekend, I
Went out stargazing.

I was struck
By the cold beauty of one
Lonely star, glistening
In the inky veil,
Winking at me.

Alone in her
Frigid bedsheets, she
Gazed down, like monarchy,
To I; the one who saw
Her quiet beauty.

She winked again,
Then drifted away:
A plane in the night.
So there were no stars
That evening, after all.

You sit and admire
The sky of liquid silver.
Birds twitter above.

Echoes of sirens
Wailing a shrill melody
Scream in the cold night.

A plastic bottle
Sits discarded at
The foot of a
Recycling bin.

A city bird,
Mistaking it for
Some kind of
Strange fruit, or

Perhaps a meal
Fit for a king
Descends, grasps it
With pincer'd claws,

Then carries it to
Her nest, and sits
For five minutes,
Watching, confused,

As her hatchlings
Gnaw at the label.
In bright red letters:
'Taste The Feeling.'