God’s perfect little time machines

Rose and sunset dark, the stars and satellites spin above.

Mists and fogs linger moistening, ploughlands, fields and bogs,

Displace the whisperings of the bees;

God’s perfect little time machines,

Bridging physics, bridging time fade out towards the autumn equinox.

The year’s end slides like a black-out screen as Samhain bonfires blaze.

I watch the morning, grey; the mackerel clouds, cirrus whisps,

Like dreams of inconsistent intensity, of aspirations unfulfilled,

I pull my dressing gown tight about me,

And contemplate the light.