Paper cups and plastic cups spewing out of Biffa bins. But very soft air.

Vauxhall gardens flattened, flattered, in view of cranes.

To defy grace (or imply it), this city severed,

Its purpose oblique, existence not a riddle now
no more then, or than…a slow glide,
scrappy activity, a lot of speedy

ZIGZAGS.

There can be no greater despair,
possibly. Although we hope for
Vineyards, fine fruity wines!

As the world warms, and seasons are
obliterated. But just wait for
those wines! And those very hot
summers. Let the Temperature
rise.