poem

[Andy Whitfield]

Eventide

Spinning, zephyr’s
Of nothingness, dance
With blissful desires
Of the fleeting moment.
While the ebb tide day
Runs across the sunlit hours,
Until the moon herself
Awakes and touches,
A dying day with silver
Fingers now outstretched.
In anticipation of Heaven’s
Salutation of the evening
With Angel’s words
Now carried upon
The breeze and in an
Instant is gone!
Leaving only the faintest
Hint of radiance touched by
Millions of tiny diamonds
Reflected upon the sea.


Andrew Whitfield. ©