I came home and they’d taken my sky away.
I used to look out with that distant kind of smile
and step away from the ups and downs of the day
by glazing over and floating into that deep blue distance.
I used to stand and wonder if the clouds I saw
had been to other countries. I wondered if
they rained on Africans who were happy to feel
them do their thing and on Parisians who
would grumble with a Gallic shrug and hasten
their pace towards Montmartre.
I used to wonder if the sand in the raindrops
was really from the Sahara or if it was
some bits of a riverbank from just down the road.
I used to imagine what it would be like to
soar up like a bird amongst those clouds;
wondered if they would be soft or
if they’d be wet and bumpy or cold and lumpy.
I’d look around and see the March daffodils
make patterns like a landing strip for
some airborne God and the hidden Spring
primroses as they nestled amongst the
I’d drift on in my head amongst those clouds
and look down on my home and the city I love
in such a complicated way. I could see the
silly fights people had over nothing and the
foxes in the woods.
But when I came home today I found they took my
sky away with the wrong kind of crane, cement
mixers and a sheer climb of ugly bricks.
Profit it seems, is more than a match for my daydreams.