The choking smog, irritates

and catches fire at the back of throat

from five miles away and the blank

faces of acceptance is a far cry

from Tiananmen Square.

 

A world away, the air is only soiled

by the corruption that settles

on the skin, that digs deep

into the pores

and poisons the soul.

 

A world away still further,

the recoil of a shot in the

broad light of day, echoes around the

empty chamber

and dies unhappily, its purpose spent.

 

In the heart of the Ocean,

the five pence bag,

catches a fish who grows weak,

no voice to call for help,

its last conscious thought,

at least there is no smog down here.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015