Shimmering under kindling embers glow with fiery promise,
stoked from lazy slumber they crackle into flame.
Beneath the hollow sky a fine white shroud descends,
vapour trails glide eastward as if searchlights of the Gods.

In moments so peaceful I hope the world sleeps on,
the Sun to lose its wings the waking bells to never ring,
while timber fills where once it stood with scented smoke the soul of wood,
to offer back unto the stars the source of all that’s never ours.

The source of all that’s never ours is eternity. 

© Wolfgar 2019