Buncefield: The Memory Depot Poem by Richard George

The roof of dreams crashed on my head,
up-puppeting me to an ash dawn
as my window-frames St.Vitus danced.
By breakfast it was World News
as sidelong the raven plume
smeared like the mane of a scarlet Astarte...
the Marseillaise who lured me,
a virgin, Magellan-bearded,
from her stall of Henry Miller in St.Albans market.
For two nights, smoke-nimbus cast
rust and grisaille
like the pupil of an eye across a waning moon.