changing colour as I try to describe it.
At first, clouds stretch their long red tongues
towards the sun, while Spring encourages
unexpected brightness from the streets
that quickly melts away to grey. The wind races
like a wolf pack through fluttering puddles
as the rain whispers its apologies.
Later, the moon drags the evening’s corpse
to join the light’s mass grave in the west
and then hangs like drift ice in the sky,
surrounded by crevices where stars rest.
The octopus sleeps on, black in the blackness.
Published in Tintean
S.C. Flynn 