Here, always
in our back garden
the clouds form
themselves into a cauldron
& the sun
a white hot ingot
is flung
fiery into it
burning a hole
in the sky
as if God
(the sleepy sod)
has dozed off
& forgot
to put his cigarette
out.
Dónall Dempsey
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/just-the-way-it-is-for-janice/
