They’re falling from the sky again
I can see them drifting, grey butterflies
Of ash
Fluttering slowing in the dead wind, in the warm
Wind. Edges are blackened, dust is falling with them
Carrying them, bringing them down on in a mirage
Dust, the glass-like quality of the road
The red, hot stain of the footpath, trodden over
And forgotten
Shielding my eyes from the sting of ash and dust and grit
And turning east to the new horizon
I dip, stumbling
Ash piling up, a desert behind my aching back
Pulling
They’re falling from the sky again
In grey streaked rains, that fall fallen
Dead
No comments:
Post a Comment