Hot Air '97
The scarlet balloon lies limpid,
in tatters, spread out, ripped poppies
on the sunlit field;
amidst other flowers too, those
of children, saints, sinners, the overworked;
in dress for weekend leisure,
beyond the eaves of some high wood;
and some run across, stretched rubber
scuffed, faded, sole-imprinted.
Those that lived their names and-
saw day of fire follow day of fire;
now putrid, whitewashed; songs for the fallen
in a hollow common;
more of a bowl than level playing field.
Sunken by the weight of a generation’s lies,
now blown clear in calming winds.