The image below was sent to me in an email. It is obviously doing the rounds, so you may have seen it. It is the sunset at the North Pole with the moon at its closest point. I am posting it for no other reason than I think it uncommonly beautiful.
The fragment below I wrote some time ago. It was intended to grow a bit and become part of a longer poem, but I think it must have been still born, for there has been no development since.
Grey the slates, green-grey the tiles,
the walls like grubby sheets hang down -
could not be said to rise. No sign
of any spark where life has been;
no tree, no meadow, flower or stream.
But now look up, see school is out;
the clouds, like children bursting through the gates,
play every sort of landscape game they know.
Transformers of a different kind, they
flatten tufts of prairie grass, build
table mountains, gulfs and
crevises, pile pebbles high as cairns, become
grey crags of anvil-shapes. Behind
it all, meanwhile, the sun
grafts its pink fingers - strange
graffiti - on them all.
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