Poetry, Low Hangs the Sunset

... an omen?

Low hangs the sunset

across the penitent sky,

reminding that we are all prisoners

to the vagaries of time,

outcast dancers

however sure our gait.

While encamped armies

wait in the wings

riddled by forebodings,

blackbirds dip into the horizon.

An omen?

Journey to where the winds

are weaned, and restive birds

seek haven in rocks and rills.

Go, go, to where the North Winds coalesce

and the air is charged

with enigmatic furies and chants,

incandescent images

across the face of the sun.

Previously published

Feb. 05, 2000