As usual, the barrels of
the city guns erect over the skyline,
emit clouds of smoke an
unseasonal downpour of ash flakes.
This keyboard strikes more
a note of isolation. The world appears
here on an empty square
of glass wall and after a while disappears
into my own sheepish reflection
but the arched smile of the exotic colours in
the tears of the sky descends
a promise — a song of swaying fronds.
The russet angel of twilight
rocks the cradle again, moments of life
into past in a kind of
domestic besidedness. A fish springs up
the pond and arches down
logging off the windows to a soulless world
while gleams of light
disentangle me from many webs in the
sites of tinsel knowledge.
Life’s boat dances on the ripples of the river’s smile.