Earth Warrant Poem by GRANT FRASER

The sun turned over
like a newly awakened sleeper,
face a fiery red!

I took several portraits,
before the sky bled,

Up past the Torry Coo!
Fog prophet bereft,
your funnel bright,
but dead of sound,

Across Girdleness park,
where yellow hats rocked
among the green green blades,

I liberated almost fifty,
straightaway,
the heads! the heads! ,
so differentiated,
a pocketful of visionary babble!

This is a form of travel,
the words are not dead happy,
that I can tell you....

These are helmeted magicians!
who worry and legitimately
scurry through veins and ideas,

And the sauce pan dreams silver,
as I wash away remnants,
high as you like;
And the sirens go mental...