For once there is no writing in the sky.
The cloud above us is of glass, they say,
so today the air is crystal clear
and we can see the blue
without our world's calligraphy.
Tonight the moon is lying down,
watching the progress made.
The humans of the northern world
are ants in turmoil, baffled
by a twig across their path.
Will they turn it round
and float it like a primitive canoe?
Or will ferry-masters up the price,
and seize the profits of the day?
Will those who won first hold
fend off the lately come
to struggle in melt-water?
For once there is no writing in the sky.
Can they not see the writing on the wall?
wonders the moon
as she sways tonight in her hammock
in the clearest of glass skies.
