The Sun Goes Down
Dismal science isn’t economics
that skip fast under the setting sun.
The old birds wait for quiet enough
to breach the low horizon. They pass
beneath, sink down to get off free.
A definite article of serious wishes.
It's the serious accounting that excites
the dismal and hopeless. The sad are kept
low. Held up, their mouths set just right
they get it hopping crazy in the farmyard.
Three-legged dogs and deformed lambs.
The broken halters of horses run amok.
The sky gets higher, the moon is swelling.
These ancient roads only stand so much
till this precious, probable sundrian
stops the lessening and if it be wished
takes the nothings and spins them into light.
© 2014 Rob Schackne