The spectacle was like a circle
of multicoloured expanding stars
whilst the silent established ones
and half-moon watched impassively
from the terrifying blackness of space
then I pictured myself as a young boy
when this scene filled me with such awe and joy.
I briefly drifted to sleep despite the noise
dreaming of the Russian Front
and screeching Stalin Organs bringing death.
All over the city the heavens shined
transient as raindrops on a river.
It became quieter than hours before,
the moon and stars...ruling the sky once more.
This is the section where fiction prose becomes something else. We still expect the poems to be short, though – sonnets, perhaps, or around that length at the very most.