Dance of the Dust Devils - a poem

Towers of glass and concrete
imprison forlorn trees.
Fingers of sunshine creep across dark brick,
rough like someone forgot to shave.
Clouds roll
Large, white and lumbering;
puffed asthmatically from a giant engine.

Everything is falling away in Russian doll layers. 
At the centre there might be nothing. 
Or God.

The dead leaves flicker and tremble.
A resurrection waltz
Magicians hurriedly pull down shutters
on paint-flaked caravans.

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