A sonnet from home.
I smell burnt feathers adrift on the air,
Mingled with sharp seasoned, iron blood everywhere.
Fires roar round L.A. , deluge tears across town,
Sidney burns,almost, Fukushima frowns.
Acrid taste endures, pain insane, rain blame.
Not my fault, or yours, Johnson mops, plays game!
Inhale burger weed flavour on street breeze,
Weekender – London, beggars on their knees.
Miserable band cuts straight through to me,
Lone trumpet soaring over red blue screen.
Anyone would think, with stench all around,
We might waken up, find some common ground.
But no, drink warm gin, ginger lemonade,
World goes up in smoke, burnt feathers pervade.
In the hut