Our star is sinking into a grey-mauve pad of cloud.
The screams and miaows of the gulls are echoed
By the shrieks of children, incomprehensible and loud.
The little houses are settling down for the night.
I should water my fruit trees and pull up some brambles.
The sun is coloured dark orange and its light
In that odd place between the wolf and the dog.
As usual my house is untidy, the kitchen a shambles.
I’m unhappy that the light is fading so soon,
So different from the endless summer days of June.
It’s only a quarter to eight, not at all late,
But the light is draining down into an invisible hole,
The colours slowly sucked out of the air, turning to fog.
The last sliver slowly sliding into the clouds of trees
And gone. But not finished. The dusk goes on and on.
Until if flops wearily into its bed of night
And turns out the light.
***