Gold light crowns the hill.
Trees must sing in leaves of green,
a lullaby beneath blue skies.
My eyes, agape, with mouth of crow,
I caw the onset of a sunset red
that reaches out to touch with pink
the plumped up, pillow clouds.
The sun, like spittle on a prophet’s lip,
hangs pre-destined over someone elses’ dawn,
whilst night, indifferent slitter
of the throat of light, creeps up behind
and soaks us all with days last gush of blood.