On Days like This

On days like this the world is blurred
As though a thumb’s been smeared through it.
Trees bend down and shake their branches –
Leaves like teabags bursting. True, it
Isn’t like this all time, but when it is
The sheep find leas,
Impale their bandy legs in earth and
Lean at forty-five degrees.
The smoke from chimneys rips in pennants
As though the hell-bent harbour town
Is one enormous steam train on
A mountain, shrieking, hurtling down.
Through window frames and ill-pitched door jambs
Ghosts bewail their fate in tones
Of drunken actors. Outside, dogs’ ears
Flap like windsocks, buildings groan
And pensioners use tattered brollies
To fight the great invisible,
As strolling lovers cling together,
Becoming indivisible.
Bin bags dance across the sky,
Balletic. Meanwhile on the shore,
The rabid ocean opens up
It foam-flecked mouths and starts to roar.
On days like this, I’ve often found,
My armchair is the place to be,
With coffee, watching as the world
Destroys itself beyond the steam.