Poem: Sunset

Random Acts of Poetry

Sunset

It looked like the end of the world.
The whole sky papered over

with an absurd and intricate wing pattern:
You might have thought

the sky had sprouted feathers,
spreading oily quills

that tickled the skin.
Across the sky-bowl's center

they were metallic, glinting
of blue steel

and glass of seasick green;
but in the west

the wingtips burned
and the flaming plumes of Phoenix

sheltered the sun like a rare pearl
too precious to be seen.

The wing was bigger than the earth
and determined to keep a confidence.

The real sky was hidden away that evening.
The sky held a terrible secret.