The superficial ticking drills itself into my mind,

Like an overindulged bass-line

I gaze out at the bruised plum of a sky,

That seems to me pugnacious,

Its taunts healed only by the gracious light

Of the reprimanding stars

Which glance at the sulking clouds

Like a mother, exhausted.

The fight is gone now out of the heavens

Which rather stare insolently as a

Once trusted friend that has turned its back,

Even the trees have altered their view.

They whisper and point towards the stalwart rooftops

Who sing me back to sleep.