Low in Grassy Oceans

Gold dies on blue pines

Still against skylines,

Subtly shifting infinity

As possible inflections

Of mindless gold.

Pink-brick chimneys

Rise through peeling lattices

Without panes,

Ringed by a shingle

Of pebbly mountains

Struck through green hosts

And unfounded dwellings.

Roseating clouds

Flush in guilty fever,

Kissing their last

Of lowlit farewells

Before taking evolution

To grace and darkness.

A mantle of bark-chips

Ripples from mounds

Of dark-mossed slate,

Low in grassy oceans

Where rooftops smoulder horizons

And willow tresses bury

Star-teared tendrils

In moist earthy pools.

As if a rising wind

Could breathe its first

On a perfect cadence,

And sighing deep

Into bracken masses,

Vanish like scattered beauty

With no eyes

To lend it value.

The End

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