Browning and holding themselves
with a fear, previously unseen.
Their shivers are more easy now;
in a childish, miserly wind.
Leaning their twisted faces over
a black earth: taunting, matte and cracking.
Any hint of gaiety has gone to
the heavens as steam that now
threatens to growl and scream
into a fitting, purple haze.
Nostalgia is of life and mobility
unrestricted; a blooming, wet wonder.
Fearful of firm fingers now:
they only exacerbate failure;
they pop and crumble and race
to the oily, counterfeit tarmac.