Dusk, the shadow’s maker in a woolen woven weave, hangs upon the sweetened vines that bind this summer’s eve. Holding there in hushed content, drawing moments fatter, it stands in day’s end last lament unearthing evening’s batter that bends the ether temporal, that lends a feigned gestalt, coercing from the ticking clock one living breath to halt.
The dust suspended, golden, upon the frozen ether strains to twinkle in reflection of the slanted rays that grace the panes of long arced window’s moment caught in flitting glimmer’s play, blushing pink to ochre o’er the ancient oak and still hallway, casting hesitation’s doubt in breathless ebbing tide, held in mirror’s reflection, through lengthened course and gating wide.
Seduced to pause between the poles enlisted to keep time, in brass convex reflection stands the pendulum’s sweet rhyme that quivers in its pausing thought, sings in polished brass and pane, captures in one resonance this moment held in dusk, sustained. ‘Til heaved in breath one downbeat’s heft, driven by an ancient law, returns the evening from its theft and captures all this poet saw.
2 responses to “The Poet’s Dusk”
I don’t think I will ever look at my Grandfatherclock the same again, Jay. In awe of how you can write, no matter what the form 🙂
Thank you Heather. Kind of funny, the image that came to mind was almost”Twilight Zone”surreal. One moment at dusk frozen long enough to observe and capture. Thank you for always visiting and leaving such kind comments. Hope all is well with you my friend.