The sky is falling. In these cloudless haze-free lockdown days, little blue butterflies slide past, like paint-chips of broken sky, swirling this way and that. Orange tips are like fragments of cloud, their edges still burning. Commas are smouldering embers. Peacocks and tortoiseshells suggest tiny cog-wheels and mechanisms falling from the sphere of heaven and yellow brimstones float like broken peices of sun.
The sky is falling.