Seventy years on.

Seventy years on.

There is no H in bomb.

There is no forgetting,

Even without the flash.

The mushroom

Expanding ever higher

Consuming all that was good

In the fertile soil.

The meaning of clouds

Changed that day.

Even the rain

That has since fallen

Carries a hint of death.

People in fear

Of every breath,

Drowning in free falling acid.

Green house gases

Fogging up the lenses

Of rose coloured glasses,

Lest we ever forget

The fear

We see in the eyes

Of the dying.

Grainy images caught

In black and white,

As they run

The wind at their back

Soon overtakes them.

A race no human

Could ever hope to win.

The pickle is out

Of the jar.

A fine mess

That will not

Go back in.

Remember the many

Along with the few

Who did not fall

On that day,

And the host

That came after.

Their souls now legion.

They are ghostly spirits.

Shadows in the mystic,

They are the cast

Of a drama

Played out as a cloud

That one day soon

May choose

To fall as rain

All over you.