There was some problem down at the docks.
Mountains of rubbish sifted by mechanical jaws.
Contours of crushed aluminium.
But something’s wrong. Something
in all that metal is burning.
The signs warned of it.
Orange letters on black: SMOKE.
In the blue interior of the bus the air turned greyish and white.
When we reached the dual carriageway that ran parallel to the waterfront,
a black cloud was pumping out of that metallic heap. Apocalyptic.
Not the most original of thoughts, but that’s the word that wrote itself into
the interior of the bus where the air wasn’t quite right
and smelled of burning wire.
We kept on breathing. No-one said anything.