When a bloated tower-block for the rich
is erected in a rundown neighbourhood
the locals stand at the perimeter
looking up at the solar reflections
in a thousand clear panes
like enchanted pagan witnesses
of Aurora Borealis
They say words the block's inhabitants
cannot hear. They wonder who lives up there
in the penthouse apartments
at a million notes a pop
The block's shadow is long & diabolical
It falls like an axe on the locale below
In Neolithic England
they built megalithic columns
hewn from stone, stood encircled by ley-lines
Now I, druidic neighbourhood idiot,
stand rooted to the spot at the block's clubfoot
watching the witch on the thirteenth floor
Black silhouette resplendent at window
The skyscraper necromancer
lights a candle for the sill
Singing her auguries
of the coming Arcadia
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