Poetry

The cloud

Was it Orwell who described the Parisian sky as a cobalt wall?

We sit lifeless tonight, under a sun nearly set that cackles at each lowered beam. The world shaking with every stolen ray. But I see others walking in step with the carnival’s rhythm, bragging with their ignorant limbs that the quake only affects me.

You ask me to answer, but I cannot, and so instead you tell me the words I speak inside my own mind. Harmonising your soft and gentle tones with my hard bass. You tell me in my words how, like great literature and music of centuries gone by, time cannot depreciate the chains of silk that we tie between ourselves and those who stroke our hearts.

Jack Field