have spent day on couch while wind roars around ninth floor of buliding somewhere deep in SW London. the sun is about to set as it never exactly rose/ dull-ly beneath the muster of pollution /and dirty winds of litter and the lacklustre flight of a jarred swan's wing in the park below /

the sun is gone in the time of writing/ she is now a slothful navy/ old, with small burrs / navy suit / she looks better disguised by the jacket of darkness/ where aged men walk with canes alongisde the park/ the swan rests awhile on dark flurried water as he passes/ one wing, ripple ripple, as his cane moves past, tip tip tip/

the sun is travelling to africa / streams of incandesence her path/ soon she will b there/ and for them/ she will shine her light brazen and proud/ turning all into a hot dry day of drought.