étangs d'automne

My tenth-born breathed a mist across the waiting evening water

Wounded clouds and darkened trees concealed the dying day

Bloody-faced and marble-tongued, the fearful shadows sought her

She tended their contusions as they leached away to grey

Sendal Dusk

Behind the beacon hills the sky in patches, remnants, clouded
Like silk shot through with clarets, cobalts, fit to clothe a king
Below, the winking hamlets now with burnt sienna shrouded
Feigning sleep, they nestle deep into the vale's green sling

Black Spot

Into the ditch are bloodied glass and twisted metal smashed

Past dimming eyes a world of whirling grass and wet mud flashed

All happy thoughts of home and children's faces, cruelly dashed

Contrail

Ripped and torn unravelled sky marks travellers' thoughtless wend

Empyreal vaulted winds just sigh, their quilts of blue extend

Frail crumbling orbit's gentle sweep through sunset's golden glow

Is brushed aside no more to sleep dispersed like spring's last snow