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.