It isn’t the weather

It isn’t the weather

Or the lack of,

How stupid.

Whatever it is

Nothing remains of yesterday

Or beckons like a beacon

On a green hill

Above a rocky shore

So many more before me

Have crashed and burned

Lived to be spurned

Even on a good day.

Thank goodness for humour

Nobody knows me

Without invitation

But you.

Once upon a time

You asked me

To paint an orange

It was no more than a blob

I could have eaten yours

I should have asked what colour

You wanted me to paint it

But that question would have been

Too primitive.

You paint what you see

Who sees me

When the streets are as empty

Of familiar faces

As a strangers gallery

In Westminster,

Which may not exist

In anything but history

Which is when I last saw you.

I remember the weather

It was fine

And just goes to show

How stupid the notion

Of a good day is

When the world can end,

Darkness descend

Angels fall

Shadows flicker with danger

As sleeping dragons with

Distended stomachs

Turn black dogs

Inside out,

See how they bark,

But the sun will rise

The ice caps melt

The Penguins still die

In the morning.