On thoughts of creative decadence,
cast like sand on the cloud-tops, roof-tops, spinning tops
carried to heaven on the church spire, electric wire
and the car with a flat tyre
on the side of the motorway
doesn’t know its own name.
Lucky, then, that it’s written
as an imprint in the tar.
Not so for the houses that hang in space
losing roof-tiles to time
and yet, they carry their age with grace - but
hollow and losing loose thoughts
to the low-hanging clouds that close the world in –
but only to increase
the density of light.