Slit, like pink ribbons,
Each sash tinged with a peach gash,
Hang rag-tatters, clouds.

Above Money’s slums,
Sing silver Moons: above those
Palaces, gold Suns!

Winter’s deafening
White silence spreads, like feather-
Sheets, on new-made beds.

Machine-gun roadworks;
Schoolkids snipe, pot-shot, may days,
Cherub wings withered!

Whit-hot nerves burn now,
Migraine seizures, arc, explode –
As skies fever rain.

© Richard Westall