MELANCHOLIA SOUTHBOUND

There were blue skies today, I think.

Somewhere, high behind the grey-on-grey.

I see a rain starting that won’t end,

And darkness, from which there will be no reprieve.

Where the streetlights will become our suns,

And the passing headlights our moons,

For all that shines will soon be washed away.

The southbound bird knows,

As he takes upon his leisurely flight.

But all these words are wings of wax,

And each time the poem ends

I find that day has surrendered freshly

To that cruel night.

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