Imagined lives, in a mist,
The pipes of men now silent.
All I see are tiles of slate,
And squirrels mocking those too late.
Four towering chimneys are the Clocks of Ages;
The promise of the world.
But pod-like seaweed, strewn on rocks,
Are cysts in final stages.
All about me echoes out,
The certainty of shadowed doubt.
And chemic sands, now Reddleman-dyed,
Are plagued with squirrels in every mind.
Industry's Station now is faking,
Tintoretto shrouded in mist.
And a golden past of dreaming towers,
Is now the practise of grimy showers.
Yet all the time the hybrid grows,
In the rhythm, then juxtaposed.
Glints from the moon flow with the tide,
But squirrels will always inhabit your mind.