A Critical Mass?

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Necessary Fictions - Rus in Urbe 2

Even the glueworks looks romantic
against the pastel paintbox sky, flamingo-blue,
the rococo vent-stack stands content-
edly exhaling smoky arabesques.

An emblematic swan parades between
the crowned heads of the water-lilies while,
further on, the peach and iron of the water’s gloss
is barely puckered by the breeze.

Along the path the scabbed-up bitumen gives way
to saffron-coloured gravel, wreathed in dusty green;
a hulk awaits reincarnation with its rotten planks -
an accidental masterpiece of texture, tincture, transformation.

The countryside is squeezed by power-lines,
tower-blocks and motorway until the town
inserts post-modern pastiche phoney arches,
brick-skinned on otherwise quite bland facades.

This pretty picture’s elements are disconcerting,
as intrusive as the stench of boiled bones,
but lover-like I squirrel it scenes like this
to get me through the colder months to come.

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