Declining

This declining sun does not discriminate,

torching trees

and scolding the ore alike.

This evening, the sun itself drowns

in the missing

so fleetingly, I had no time to enquire

what was left astray.

And it went on drowning with the last licks of heat

as forsaken breath.

And everything turns no-more-red.

Customary circuit: no shops,

no tall buildings, yet.

But three little unassuming cafes stacked and

chained together. A flight

I see every day, that of the magpie, tonight

mourning. Dressed as they come

in festive and funeral robes, they sing

a ritual of hours. The killing, the enquiring, the laments.

Some things will be hidden as unbelievable, and

I can't but applaud the sceptic. But

those

tacid things were yet true.