Bits of bright color 
Darting hither and thither . . . 
Hollow-eyed buildings 
Looking coldly 
Forsaken . . . 
A sky of leaden grey 
Swoops down and seems 
To clutch with the fingers of Boeas 
These works of man so bold 
As to threaten its solitude . . . 
While up above 
Mother Carey is busily 
Counting her chickens . . . 

         Sandy Doone.