Augustian Sunday

‘Twas a peculiar day in August,

No spring in their steps,

no smile for the stranger.

The clouds weren’t fluffy and white,

but jagged and sharp,

converging at a distant destination.

The trees weren’t airy, or green,

but moist, blurry and hurtful.

The sky, not a peaceful blue,

but a violent red, like roadkill.

The breeze, not happy, chirpy,

but urgent, stinging speed.

The sun, not bright, kingly,

but dueling with the moon,

for a solitary solstice.

The stars, not shining,

but fighting to be seen.

The dogs barked incessantly,

the air smelt of burnt plastic,

people were fidgety.

‘Twas a peculiar day in August,