by kim blades, writer

Pillows of pink

among the blue

make me think,

‘what a lovely hue!’The morning sky

is at its best

when the sun is not high

but no longer at rest.

By seven in the morning

the pink has all gone

it is no longer ‘dawning’,

it is time the sun shone.

To warm the clear sky

and the earth below,

the sun rises high

stilling the cockerel’s crow.

The golden noon’s

transparent light

is from star-showers hewn

and is a balmy sight.

By late afternoon

a rosy glow returns

the end of day is soon

but the horizon still burns.



6 Comments to “Day”

  1. Reblogged this on The Militant Negro™.

  2. Another delightful poem, Kim. Your descriptions are beautiful.

  3. And thanks for the reblog Mr Militant Negro!

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