Great spires, chimneys, plumes of smoke.
Mountains, clouds swirling, craters.
Purple blankets of dust smothering the surface.
Saturn looming large in the sky,
Like a doting mother over a crippled child.
Great drills in rows.
Glass domes, concrete blocks, giant funnels.
A rumbling. A din.
A planet unseen by Gods.
The days are long here.
Its inhabitants spill out of their buildings
And onto the roads.
They wear masks and large boots.
A sort of home. A sort of life.
I watch them as they leave.
Their vehicles make tracks in the dirt.
The leaves curling. The clouds.
Dust rising and falling silently.
The moon still up,
It is still early.
He rinses out the kettle, makes coffee,
Sits at the chessboard. Stares.
Sometimes it is so difficult to forget.
He wishes idly he could unscrew his mind,
Polish some panes and panels and
Screw it all back together.
Pushes back his chair.
Well, this is why he came here after all.
The yard out the back is a mess.
The whole house is a mess.
It will take weeks to get in order.
He sighs. Well, things take time.
Glances over at the chessboard.
Glances out again.
The moon is still up.
He will make more coffee.