Contrails scorch the sky with white-gold heated needles, as planes move silently through the the firmament’s blue-gilt material. Clouds deepen, spread, are infused with the blood of a dying Sun and blush fiery pink in reverence and renewed life.
The vast Oceanic heavens above – radiantly alight in the West as another plane, a man-made comet, comes streaking through – allow me to drift in a boat woven from late sun and peace.
Birds call. Colours become ever more vibrant. I am adrift, lulled by the waves of beauty, my mind unchained and free to dive into the limitless depths of the unconscious.
My garden is gifted with a late chalice of light.