The Shifting Sky

The light plays the first tones of dusk on the rooves of the village:

redbrick tints Victorian snow lines between shingle planes of differing stories,

the wordsong prose of sunfall graces the winter hues through spruce boughs,

the pale blue above and beyond is awash with pastel pink haze from streaming heat loss;

and then colour drains from the shingle palette

as the stray clouds collect the last of the ray-wash on the edge of evening;

the boles of maple limbs between houses darkening in the cold.

The life of earlier in the day settles inside, tracing
 longings and wonderments, sketching outlines of memory

into the vagaries of another Epiphany.