Oil on canvas,
folks watching a nuclear blast
from sun loungers, deck chairs,
reclining and bathing.
Smug with the smallness of surrounding mountains,
the smallness of all things
against seraphic light.
There, the sky is about them,
eggshell and peeling
slowly away to reveal this chance;
this guess at what is what and how
it came to be exactly what.
Curling, spoiling, whining, laughing,
crooning down upon each balden head.
The earth will bed
these minding smiles,
all long laboured miles
in whatever manner most appeals
when the chairs are folded,
the loungers breathless, suffocate in the attic,
eyes, opals turned,
milk in the baby's bottle,
lists written and
the clock face down, unticking.
Based on Edward Hopper's 'People In The Sun'