Black veins of birches,

Set against an ink bruised sky,

It’s 8:30 and I’m counting windows.

The naked electric of an oddly

Placed light hardens in the glass

And suffocates the silhouettes beyond

This room, they ghost through like

Nets, cutting up the skyline

And leaving holes of poorly painted colours,

Fading like they’re breathing through a bell jar.

Murky yellow, screams the pane, brighter

Fighter, jetting a dead sun as if it tries

To make it stick to throw the

Sky a lifeline. ‘Remember the sun?’

The electric light. ‘Remember the sky?’

Said I.

Photo by Georgia Hunt

Categories: Poetry