Page 24 - WTP VOl. VIII #7

17
Sunset Sonnet
A band of pink invades the western sky
And washes out to white beneath the blue,
A daytime blue that’s equally anemic.
It wouldn’t make a postcard. No bay shimmers In the middle distance, awaiting a moon
To rise and quiet the bridal blush of sky.
A highway rumbles northbound out of town. It points the way, the old way to Dubuque.
A tributary of the Mississippi
Slinks beside it. Two construction cranes Loom over the floodplain, brontosaurian, Though they’d dwarf that. All day long
They batter a flood-gutted auditorium. The music of the cranes is hard to hear.
After Midnight
Move over, little fellow, my pen is coming Your way, where I will hope a line is homing In. Night has fallen. An open window.
I guess my lamplight brought you to my table. Come sunrise autumn will retake the hill. Those colors must run off at night. Could Owl Tell us? He sounds lonely but finds an echo. Light feet, noiseless to us, race down the path.
He lives to sweep someone away and has The hunger for it. At sunset Rooster crowed Much like at dawn. Motion rubs us thin
But to reveal us. This bucolic byway
Is the season at a glance: a late foray
Of festival rattling its skeleton.
DaViD hamilton