Beauty hangs high o’er the head
Of passing drones who walk, half-dead,
To railway train or coffee shop
Automatons who will not stop
To look skyward and see the sight
Of colours dancing in the light
Vermillion reds, electric blues
Two shades of green, and golden hues.

Oblivious, they fix their gaze
Downward, walking, eyes a-glaze
Is standing still too hard a task?
Is looking up too much to ask?
Must life be lived in such a blur?
Can you not spare 5 minutes, sir?
By dashing through old Barlow’s Shed
You’re missing what hangs overhead

© Adrian Tribe

(More to follow… perhaps!)