Sun sets in beauty

Inspired by the Ekphrastic prompt, Fin de la Jornada by Emilio Boggio.

Congratulations to Merril and Kerfe on having their poems selected for pulication!

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Sun sets in beauty, bursts colours of heaven,

Phoenix-intangible and oh so far away,


the golds and reds, jewels filling the clouds like

rain drops, blue, pink-tinged, colour of rose petals,


flame, scarlet, crimson, vermilion, burning up the

river with molten glory. The air sings with beauty,


birds, winged marvels, flock homeward lifting their

voices in praise of the changing sky, the sleep-time,


and workers walk, heads bent to the mud, dreaming of a day

of rest, dark churches candle-lit where shadows lie in wait,


and the mumbling sing-song of the priest promises eternal

rewards, the sinking, one day, back into the indifferent earth.

Spring swans

Photo©Bob Jones

Swans there were in the sky, a skein of nine,

silent and white as driven snow,

a perfect arrowhead, pacific and pure,

pulsed with hot blood and smooth-feathered muscle.

One accord binds them on the paths of the air,

above the slow-flowing river, bound to its bed,

one accord, wing tip to wing tip, slip-stream rowing,

strongest in front, breaking the way.

Bonds as sure as any fraternity, buoy their passage,

surging on pure white power and gentle compassion.

Crow’s feat


Sky is blue

above the placid river,


crow flaps,

searching the rushes

for quiet death.


Such a burden to carry

among sleek black plumes,

sheen of sun and river glitter,

and with every slow flap flap

the portents scatter

like ashes

in the eyes of the wary world.


Ages old, the dark eyes,

bright as jet beads,

have seen the grass grow where forests sprang

and run red with battlefield blood.

Crow tears a strip of carrion,

cleans the river bank of untidy death

and slips sleek as a seal

into the eternal blue sky.

Dark days are a-coming


Dark days are a-coming,

Say the geese on the wing,

The horse in the stall,

The tiny, scuttling things with small voices.

Dark night is falling and the stars are dim,

Say the sailors on the sea,

The seals on the isle,

The gulls on the cliff.

When will it end, we ask,

The people on the edge,

The old and the sick,

The small scurrying people with small voices.

Poets cannot read the future in their words,

Or cups of tea,

Or the flight of swallows,

Or the waddling walk of the magpie,

But the sunlight through the trees,

Moonlight on the lake,

The stars that shine through cloud and raindrops,

Weave their beauty into the world,

And we can say, Ah,

This is what should be,

In our millions of small voices.