Half the clouds are contrails,
spread by wind-drift to wide blades,
and yet, no, now bars combed out,
streaked long across the blurred fur of cirrus;
Oh, the Arabic signatures of the wind at sunset,
this day of September Sixth.
Sky is writing further clauses,
and painterly palate knives and dry dusting
are at work.
A milky moon emerges from a salmon haze,
full, eloquent in maria, as clear as day,
then veiled in grey.
Oh, the wisp drift, feathers, the shining lie
of those dragon clouds, bedded at sundown,
traveling rapidly through their colours,
as the wind pulls them all to curlicues,
to sign the contract in blood,
while a blanched moon witnesses,
nestled in nook of the thorn -
hypnotic disc playing an age-old melody
undaunted by greys fading in around her -
facing relic pinks of set sun's touch,
clinker-rose fading - deep dipping is no more;
as moon shines brilliantly
whiting her clouds again,
a robin briefly sings down day.
..
YOU ARE READING
Keep The Home Fires Burning
PoetryA poetry Collection. Now Lunk has taken to his bed, swearing not to write one more word about C, and muttering 'bloody garden', it behoves (Love that word, don't you?) me (and Anima) to fill out his shoes, with soil and flower seed. So we will be 'e...
