'Gatsby believed in the green light..'
(F.Scott Fitzgerald)

We woke to a dark day
twisted around the equinox,
light entwined like ivy,
the low sun skimming
the earth like a flat stone.
Suddenly the sun sank,
beached itself, a crimson whale
on the shore of the earth's edge,
clouds wound round it like a scarf.

Perhaps this short, dark day
is meant for meditation,
mulling over time,
how it trips and traps us,
how it's continuous trek
wrings and wraps us,
our slivers of carbon
diffused and infused
with the long ring of sleep.

Embers from our fire redden
in the afternoon dusk, heat
pulsing from your hidden places
full of electricity.
Over the water, a green jetty light
switches on revealing it's location,
somewhere far, somewhere almost lost.
Categorized as Poems

By Arthur Richardson

Very part time poem maker. Retired from paid work.

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