The slate, not yet wiped clean of every
Trace of daylight, chalks out dusts of cloud.
A message once was written, for the evening,
White thumbprints of a loving, childish god.
How every evening, in the cooling out
Of a once-bright sky, is always desolate:
How every summer night is always the last,
And takes its quiet sadness gently with it.
Remember, none of this is infinite.
The endless sky is only air,
Imprisoning colour, only light
How even nights grow intimate
In death, and why we hold them there,
Imagining tomorrow in the sight
Of greying sight.