Wispy Shadows

The tropical sun is a spent force,
Charged too fast around the course.

One time it shone with brash ferocity,
Leaving a trail of burnt flesh in its wake.
Now, pale and wan, lacks luminosity.
No glorious golden sunset
To spray dancing sparkles
Upon the solemn sea tonight.

Grey-blue feathery clouds
Like gossamer shrouds,
Lie in ambush in the west,
An unwelcome guest.
There’s strength in them there whispers.
The panorama spread before us,
We see them lying in wait
Can sense the grisly fate.
We yell from the balcony
But the white horse gallops on
Inexorably on.

We sense the credits starting to roll.

Like a rapidly fading horse
The tropical sun is a spent force.
Three hours ago it would have beaten them off
With an imperious swish of its tail.
Now the wispy shadows creep
Across its surface. Song of sleep
Upon their trails, caressing,
Dressing in the burial shroud.
Now all that remains is a slight sliver,
A last shiver
And then darkness.
Calming. Embalming.

Charged too fast around its course,
Those wispy shadows showed no remorse.

And I, on my verandah, cough lightly