Drunken thoughts, reading Umberto Eco in a Yorkshire garden
The lavender sunset, upon a retiring hill
Death-tinged with evening, and waiting all the while.
The book is back-broken, thumbed like a smeary glass:
The purple prints betray my reverence.
Unveil to me the face of what I know of,
A sunset, or an apocalypse postponed.
Inspired while reading Umberto Eco’s Apocalypse Postponed whilst looking out of an extraordinary sunset over the dales. A lot of the language itself, including the eponymous sunset, has been purloined. But I like this brief, unassumingly mystical little scirbbling.