Evening - Trudie Shannon

The evening sun daubs golden light upon the forest.
Clothed, or in a state of winter undress,
The trees are become a swathe of gilt edged loveliness.
The tide is rising, drifts like a languid, but living Ophelia,
Tracing silver eddies around the floating fowl, the geese, the ducks
Who, as dusk falls do not break the magical intonation
Of the Sun's last out breath.
With raucous calls or flurrying of feathers.
It is time for thanks, for homage.
It is evening and the waiting Moon rises
Elegiac in cool grey majesty
And the Sun shifts silently out of eye-line
Sinking soundlessly into the outspread arms
Of the awaiting sea.

Trudie Shannon