The day wears away

its purple platitudes -
somewhere the sun retires, blows
pink and lilac dust at the hills
in play before she ends such frivolity,
her last gold rays hit the face
of the Old Course Hotel.

And out there on the links, golfers
curse as their balls go astray,
bad motion and strokes
stroll away their time as they
watch the sea's frills ruffle
the shore, the tideline
straggling but well-in.

And in the Science block
all the blinds are down -
squares blank and white like blind
eyes, stare across at this
gothic relic -
it's debatable which of us most
offends the other's eye.

And the sky has that icy blue
pale-green-almost colour to it
up high serene and above it all,
above the man-made murk here below,
its cloud-haze obscures the 
estuary - makes all a daze 
of dusty purple particles
hanging there, as if the last rays
of the sun were impotent, nonsensical
and powerless to diffuse the brooding darkness
here below.

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