Weavers

Carbon monoxide
Infiltrates lungs long before
The over-cooked smell of
Flesh wafts across the borough
Air fresheners only masking
The inside of every two-storey house
With affordable fragrant air
Cooling down from the heat
Under high Victorian ceilings
Jasmine pleasantly bursts
To detoxify olfactory passages
Clothes circle round and round
Still trying to wash away the scent
But the tiny weavers stick
Agonising as they stitch
The dead into the cotton

Weavers

Stars

Outer space feels
Disorderly, Empty.
The chance to be at all
Seems implausible
Yet, here I am
A man from the stars
Confidently strutting
My peacock feathers
Despite the reminder
Every time photons
Reflect a Hydrogen sunrise.
A short burst of electricity
Viewed from afar
Could look like a storm
Short and exciting
Fleeting bolts charged
Particles take me back
To where I came from

Stars