The time of the year when the sun
sets further away...the ether alive
with a frenzied frisson of wings;.
martins wheel – a whole flight of them,
yet moving as one in perfect unison.
A thin, black scarf – binding winding
round milky breasts of scalloped hills
until...in a blink of an eye – it morphs
to a distant constellation, stippling
a misted, mackerel sky – succumbing
to nothingness at the horizon.
Mother Moon gazes down; changes
her white dress for silver, knowing
all the while, such guilty pleasures
as these...snatched on the wing – but
fleeting, as with any living thing...
Dawn breaks; Mother Moon prepares
for another costume change. The sky
puts itself in the wind’s changeable hands
as tits forage for food; their small hankerings,
quivering like azure flames
in the pine trees.