Lawrence Hall
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Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                           High-Pressure Dome in a Coffee Cup

Blue light - an illusion of comfort at dawn
The streaky windows frame a winter day
Illusions and delusions lying to us
For this is July, when hopes wither and die

The sun’s tentacles ripple across the fields
One of them slithers to your window and leers
Mocking the fantasies of your air-conditioned sleep
Beckoning you outside: come and be fried

The sun’s hot streakings, mortals seeking, they roam
As summer’s slithering death: a high-pressure dome