A yellow sky has curled around

pumpkins, fireworks and poppy fragments

for a fortnight and now brews coffee

and saffron on a plate of thrush-egg blue.

On clouded hills youngsters

are bravely making their way.

 

These moods imbue our weathers,

a cradle for genes and religions.

The noise of history is switched off.

Infinitely far above, a plane

like a needle reflects a last light.

We unfold in warm hope.

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