Scarlet Morn
Artisans with an eye for the
embellishment of the clouds
under the auspices of
the patrons of the arts and crafts,
mount their eager steeds,
their sky beasts with floating hooves
to ride in a steady,
poetic, easy, fluid, gallup,
upon their risings from their
nightly catacombs
with spirited voices inside that
rouse them from a deep sleep
to set them out on a venture
to the grasslands,
to break through the tightly bound earth
and assesses how to decorate them.
With buckets of pink scarlet colored
paint they rise up in the sky
and labour through the morn,
artisans of the appearance of the skies
and the beauty of the firmament
with tears flowing down the brushes
to enhance the colors of the clouds
and love to guide the gentle strokes,
painters with poetic hands
paint them with dancing fingers,
intensive eyes, heated hearts,
flaming desires, and virtuoso skills,
and work until the sun
tells them it’s time to quit.
As it races toward eventide
they follow it with their brushes
to paint the clouds again until
the sun disappears
into the cold earth again;
another day’s work done,
another love of labour fulfilled.
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