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Combed
are the clouds
They streak in shades of
purple blue
And beneath, above the
trees, a horizon is melting through a blanket of night
Falling is the dirty
orange glow of the sun as we turn away
Little waves of cotton
wool pull away and float, like some strange migrating animals, across the sky
The faces of street
lights beam under their tin hats
The bugs of darkness cold
hover beneath the trees, unseen but biting
I fall onto the black
green grass so cool, stuck to the earth and spinning
While over a molten sky
slips away
A cocktail curtain of
fire pulled back to reveal a star studded night
And I will count them
by Suzanne Shaw
Contact the author of this feature
I know it's not very good. I was 14 when I wrote it. The
world was still always so beautiful then.
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