Engines of Our Spaceship

My closed-circuit eyes focus on the line Of butterscotch clouds, melting in plum skies. In this new dawn, ginger tom stretches, yawns. Indifferent to raspberry school-run horns.  Treacle traffic blocks my arterial streets. Slap of church-bell heart attack thunders Through the pale snooze of the cemetery. A soundtrack to my Monday high-street blues.  Soft-focus on doorway shadows. Cardboard Bed is shed in a methylated shrug. Alcoholic Scorpio, water sign. Sorrows drowned in a foam of Special Brew.  Quick cut to convoy of caffeinated Parents, herding squabbling sisters and Brothers through academy doors. Floors Confected with litter and unicorn glitter.  Lens-flare flash on a green baby-buggy. Pushed neatly, discreetly crossing the road. Narrowly missing the crates of fruit and Vegetables. Chased by coarse market curses.  Flash cut to wild-haired earth mother, reeking Of essential oils. With a wide-eyed child In hand. R

I watch from under The shade of the fly-over. The ring road squeezes the city Into prolapse. The sky closes for business And the clouds fold over, Like a restless sleeper's duvet. A sun-flare splits the grey fade Of the post-rush hour queue. I don’t think that the commuters Can see the heard approaching. A hot breeze whispers Through skeletal trees. I can see the horses racing Up the dual carriageway. The Ikea sign is melting, and Flaming hooves are pounding Over the blackened bones Of roadkill and exhaust pipes. The harras rages Through the heat haze shimmer. Their manes are ablaze. With unstable diamond eyes And the stars in their teeth, They unleash Beautiful incineration On to the idle traffic. Flashes of orange and red caress Idle wing mirrors. I see the fire-heard Race through the barrier and Leap across the fly-over. Mirrored windows kiss The glare of a new Temporary sun. There will

I take a late-night walk through the park, where Trees are hanging in a frail parliament. They lean in for a late-night session Their photocopied leaves are trembling At the thought of autumn alopecia. I try to imagine the speed of tree-thoughts. How long do they take to penetrate? And are they articulated only By green or gradients of red and brown? I can’t tell, in the amnesia of moonlight. A shopping bag is snagged by brittle hands And held up, beseechingly to the stars That glaze the hardened September sky.