The Warmth of the Sun - I


Days that skate on summer's

North wind, hard by the edge

Of a bedraggled sea, still unkempt

In this best-adorned season;

Dusks that fade into

Iridescent stillness, portions of

Unfinished night waiting for

The indiscretion of fog;

Midnights twice wrapped around

The moon's waning charisma

And muffled behind the

Mad world's eyelids;

Dawns barely perceived by

Any but the waking swallow,

A petty drizzle of new light

Romantic only to youth.

I will trade you all these

For a single endless afternoon

In the warmth of the sun.
 



The Warmth of the Sun - II


Strange. Why isn't it cool

Where your body shades

The ground from the

Warmth of the sun?

I've often suspected you

Of owning a key to the weather,

But it's suddenly clear

That it comes from within.


- David Mitchell
 

to David   /  to Moongate

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