The rave of stars distils as soot
down there on Separation Street.
We’ve bagged the lucky window-seat.
The heavens recede. We do or die
more fiercely than the race of clay.
Can awe survive another day?
We tell ourselves we need not care
since what we seek is something pure –
beyond all count of catch and cure.
We’re stripped of teapot, watch and purse.
We’ve shrunk our world to find the fleece.
We’ve placed our trust in hopeful peace.
Our dream’s mist is the kettle’s steam.
Tea-time gossip, our long-lost norm.
Loose change in space – like a meteor-storm.
