Beech Lands

Thin spikes of cloud
point fingers across
the sun's orange
diminishing light
minute by minute
fading, an invasion
of stillness and grey
horizontal breath
edges in streaks, stealthily
an ocean of drowning space
splices the sky.
Horses gallop
on an uneven distant
line, trees bunch the
horizon, movement
in their limbs
and as the sun drops
deftly into
dark passageways
all that is
left is
bald and plain, a hill of
memory stitching
yellow and grey
onto cotton cloud
that moves slowly
suffocating darkly
oncoming night.

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