Appearances

The light's not quite the same. Upon the air
the dust has deepened and across the sun
a thin grey veil's been drawn, almost too thin

to notice. When you breathe initial thought
of freshness slowly dwindles... Yes, for sure
the world's fantastic. Through the sleeping trees

the sun's like liquid brass, like golden fire
sustaining the bright dome, the deep blue glass
of self-sufficient space – and yet that sense

of slow decay, of too much noise, of pain
that creeps beneath the skin as on cold cheeks
the laugh's gone scornful, and the smile's turned wry

and beauty petrified and life stretched thin –
cruel time's just hopeless waiting, and the dry,
dull hour a constantly deferred goodbye.