Fist in the Sky

Perhaps it is the same, in London and Paris and Berlin, as it is in New York or LA or Toronto, or Moscow and Sydney and Tokyo, Beijing or Jerusalem or Warsaw, Baghdad and Bogotá and Buenos Aires, or Babylon or Atlantis or Hades. For Andromeda and Queen Cassiopeia, the Compass and the Pole Star, Orion the Hunter and the Northern Crown, Pegasus and the Southern Cross, the Crane and the Great Bear, the bright one here and that wispy line there and the darting magic one just gone - perhaps it is the same.

Starlight, that once darted half the universe to dance upon our little eyes, finds above the city a shroud of soot, cloud and mist flecked with fists of dark dirt - and there instead it dies. There amidst the vast Great Fist, a constellation of our own that out-fists the sturdy ancients of the sky.

He believes the rumours, that still starlight reaches remote spots, where there is no city yet, as durable as ever, if only we could see it. The vast sands of Africa and the frozen wastelands of the poles: where underfoot, whether boiling or freezing, are deserts as friendly to man as a fist. Whether flying Great Fist or not.