the neverending story

a puckering of light edges over the hill
like a twitching bead it grows
spilling out through the veins of leaves
and in through eaves over window panes
little stirrings, the heat moving in its lightening slumber

an easterly sighs in from afar
bringing whispers of lighter times to come
the constant ocean beats over a pasty shore
and cold toes edge over the rocky fore
while birds are roused and brought out

softly beating steps on footpaths
as mothers stop to check their children's chests
rising, falling
the acrid waves of bread fly high on rooftops
with angelic wings they beat over into the dawn

the gold creeps over roadsides
where blooms are waking to its touch
and sweetly sleeping nature starts its long haul upwards
as the darkness fades away into the light

where does that black go?
it lies upon the ground for hour on hour
only to be erased as the light spreads further
like the ink from a red shirt to a white one
how does it not spread? where does it go?

like deviant wonderings
the wanderings of the gold spread
over lampshades and letterboxes
onto abstract thought and art nouveau
like a slowly, an interminable disease

then, lo! it crumbles in the west
it scuttles quick with a line of reference
down through the thickening blue
to black, which has lay in wait for hour on end
and now seizes its chance once more