A city and a sky

All that can be seen from the green sofa are pots, orange and red, parsley and capsicums wind-ruffled.  Their outlines become sharper against a darkening sky; the black curve of the deck chair is just visible.  There is a spire thrust accusingly into the blue-black clouds and on its knife point balances a brilliant red light.  Across from the tower another tower sits squarely, its blunt corners proud with red lights; on a sort of raised platform in the middle of the roof line is what looks like a miniature Eiffel tower.  The clouds are swelling, full, and swathe the city in blue tobacco smoke. 

The mild yellow light inside the apartment caresses the dirty white brick walls, glitters on the embossed gold titles arrayed on the bookshelves, gives the smooth sheen of floral Victorian teacups a subtle gloss, and makes the city and sky look, by contrast, foreign and menacing.