Who stole the sun? Put her back now and we will say no more about it.
Shadows loom in crooked places. Where you were cast rod straight at noon,
now I see your long shadow shyly limp the alley at two. It’s a different sky
to when we rolled in snowy fields. Now the sun carves a tilt, hangs lower
and paler in the sky. A roasting Sunday, we walk on the beach, drive
back, salty, loose tongued, sun glows huge. Apricot bright. Peeks a stark,
clawing tree as we turn gently into our quiet lane, sun sets fingers ablaze
before it sleeps. And should you stop turning as night slow dances then
I will turn and see the curve of your long limbs in soft silver and remember
them one last time as old gold shone sly upon you amongst snow tip blades.
And when the steel spade axes the bridled white earth, I will look and see
you fetch the ripe sun. Yes, the sky has changed and I must change too.