Have you observed the sky lately?
Plumes of tabacco grey,
The reds and purples have faded,
The blue has washed away.
We knew the colours were rusting;
Flaking coppery red,
If only we'd have acted,
Now morbid grey is left.
The crimson bled in rivers,
As if drained from hanging meat,
Until there remained weak orange,
The process would repeat.
For a week the clouds rained amber,
Globules of sunshine ray,
And now our sky is ashen:
A grubby, stale ashtray.