At the early sight of the nearing night, 

The Sun swipes her fingertips

Across the nape of the evening sky. 

She leaves a mark of crimson 

And blushes betwixt ridges of turgid slate:

The clavicles, the shoulders,

The frame of the landscape. Insolent, 

He remains supine; lying still despite Her labour. 

Across the horizon, a bruise of lilac smoke

Smoulders with aerial embers:

A trail of light left behind. 

The last drag of a cirrus cigar:

A string of puffs that purple the surface;

A pastel pyre flushed with cinders; 

A burning haze, a fuschia furnace. 

A roaring fire of walkers and talkers. 

A sick malaise of drinkers and thinkers. 

A flaccid village; neurons in a hive:

Cells in a network of minds

All commit the communal crime: 

Spending hither on tomorrow’s yonder. 

Wasting all of today’s time. 

Both now and near and yet so far. 

The solar clock placates the burn,

The colic ache of worried hearts begins to churn.  

After her coloured lullaby, Mother rests. 

The hourglass is tucked away for now; 

Kept deep within her chest. 

She counts the seldom seconds left 

Until the city draws abreast.