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
