the mist

The mist

The haze hangs over Cascais bay today
obscuring the ugly hotel designed by a self-regarding architect,
they gave him a diploma
so he could go on planning more horrors.
I see the church spire; it looks like a rude finger
pointing up to heaven, inside the priest is smug
thinks after long service, he will automatically
enter the heavenly palace.
The fog is dissolving, the sun is breaking through
sunlight in windows.
And down below a myriad of human ants worried
in zig-zag thinking of tomorrow