Skies disguised as oceanbottoms
No more Everest corpse blue. Missile scorched
Two left tube three this morning at twelve past two
Troupe two, troop corps nine reporting for duty
Static, even the emergency channels. Scanning. Keep scanning.
No recordings on repeat like television had imagined
Survivors report to this beach or that base within reach
Fuse-blew black now, our once star-backed ceiling, azure plundered.
The last bells pealing, knelling a new time for once
The Thunderer’s busy pilums plunge
Unwilling multitudes back through time.
Like pocket chocolate, hard metals melt into toxic unguent pools,
Wider London reduces to rubble piles.
Alchemisland 
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