I see the Manhattan morning from the dusk

of a Maltese bay and I realise there is no colour,

just black and white memories

with the spectacular vision of off sepia groove thrown

in for effect as I recall days of stories

from the Adanac house and I know that

Time is eating away, burning up, like a Catherine Wheel,

spun by an unseen hand in the darkness

and the fireworks light up the sky

in desperation, in ground down coffee bean surrender

and the taste of yoke screams in heat