Mountain as Molehill

The sky looks like God got up today
and decided to redecorate.

No masking tape,
but a face like thunder and a threadbare jumper,
and the radio turned to eight.

Weary from the six-day workweek
He stumbles past mountains left as molehills
and first-draft forests.

He picks and sniffs through pots:
Grace and Glory,
a colour-match for Compassion…

He settles on an understated shade of Shame.

Rings two clouds out like a sponge.