John Grey
Night slowly moves in,
imitates the land beneath
in its crackling cooling.
The red glow is scattered now
like the farmhouse lights,
and headlamps on highways.
Gray smoke lingers
though the sea-breeze is intent
on rolling the miasma inland.
Air smells of stale sugar
fresh salt
and floating ash.
As always,
one season ends in holocaust,
the next in pungent odors.
Neither snake
nor stars in the sky
make it out alive.
In pub after pub,
sweaty faces go with
fourth beers of the night.