What fate torments you, spirit of twilight, Forever cursed to chase the setting sun And be pursued by spectres of the night Borne on that cobalt shroud from which you run! Your wake cuts like a knife through coalescence Of colours bleeding out from sunset’s prism, To drip in pools bereft of luminescence That fill the chasm cleft by your incision; Yet even as that fiery orb descends Horizon’s crimson line, on eastern quarter, Her speeding chariot’s argent light portends The visage of Hyperion’s eldest daughter. By destiny decreed to never know, The dark of night, nor daylight’s warming glow.
Twilight On The Farm
Image: Charles Rollo Peters
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I do not dwell on time; but time on me Imposes thought that distracts meditation, With chiding memories of what can not be, A man derided by his own creation. While high above infinity’s endless ocean Where, from temporal realms, no echo rings, The angel of existence orders motion And time is but the beating of her wings. She flies along the shoreline of mortality Where waves of life break ever on the beaches, Her touch imbues the living with vitality, Her shadow is the threshold of death’s reaches. Her flight is clearly audible in the clock: Those silent booms between the tick and tock.