Overcast skies,
Whiter ways.
Descending power lines,
Time behind.
Man looking up,
Sees it all.
Plane drops bomb,
It's no secret.
World's full of fire,
Like Al Green.
Something orange glaring out,
you ought to pick that thing up and
look closely at the colour beneath
the direct light.
Like an actor center stage,
we all want to see them bow humbly
so we can stand.
I will not stand for it.
But I will look upon it tonight and
see the bordering black,
for it is a black sun.
Midnight, midday – it is warm,
mid-afternoon – it is torn,
here and there like scattered leaves
floating through a sieve
into shattered bits of pepper,
devoured in the air
so you can see the orange in there.
Poems ©MaryJane Thomson 2015