The incinerator smoke, expelled as a statement over
the Sandymount sky, waste converted to wasteful.
Energy, disappeared over the bay.
This morning, over its pseudo silver surround,
the smoke is an inverted question mark,
as if its own existence is uncertain
or a straight plume of smoke that clashed
with a frown of sky that interrupted a smooth
ascent. A shudder in the cloudless expanse.
Sean Smith is a published poet and cricket lover. Sometimes the two worlds collide on twitter @pembrokecricket