Across a black-blue backcloth night,
Absorbing stains of sodium light,
The yellow cotton wool of clouds
Crescendoes into sulphur shrouds;
Stampeded by the hunting gales,
They spill the rain in wind-warped veils.
From Turner-painted swirls it slides
In streaking shooting stars it glides,
Across the golden street-light glow
To glisten in the grass below;
On hissing streets it bluntly dies
In even, never-ending sighs.
This poem is a recent rewrite of a poem I originally wrote in 1970.