Teadance

At twilight it becomes clear
How quickly these short hours fade.
The last luster of sunset rippling
Up the face of the hill in marmalade patches,
Urging light on waiting trees.

Senseless nerves find little significance
In the eclipse of generations.
Wind whispers over the watercaps
Walking silently on the water,
among the trees and away.

Sun dips below the horizon's edge
And these days of light
Leave no trace.