Trees still as statues

On carpets of grass.

Air barely moving

And flowers like glass.

A world scarcely breathing,

A moment serene.

In the silence, a healing,

An unceasing dream.

Then out of the aching

Blue dome up above,

The city descends

Like the slap of a glove,

Shoving the statues

And breaking the glass

And, far too soon,

This Eden must pass.

Stephen Tomkins
19/2/19
Perth