a kind of genocide

The landscape's changed. There's more green. Less colour. Easy on the eyes. No intermittent slants of shade in which to hide as ambers turn to greens. Naked spines slashed brutally, vertebrae hanging in angles, mangled past of a booming outdoor ad industry lying in heaps, marking graves where they fall. Carted in trucks, sticking out in ridged heaps, weeping rust at nonchalant passers by. No more galleries. No more free art. The hoardings have gone. The skyline is empty.