A bit about nothing, a bit about losing focus, a bit about the melancholy comedown after the Olympics and Paralympics. This has been sitting in a notepad for a while, uncertain.
New clouds,
filthy grey barrage balloons,
lope across the sky
lit from below.

We, beneath,
light fading from us,
find comfort in the long-trod
paths of time.

The new sun,
petulant, cold, a mirror,
shows us our shadows
illuminates nothing.

In every eye
a dimming firework
in memory now collected
stored deep away.