Here Comes The Sun

This morning, the Sun is a little bit shy –

I know he’s not normally that kind of guy.

A thin veil of cloud is disguising his face,

Though it’s clear that he’s there in his usual place.

 

Regaining his mojo as morning moves on,

He’s now as defiant as a Mafia Don –

Glaring unblinkingly right in my face,

The sensible choice is retire with grace.

 

He knows his usurper will rise and, that soon,

His place will be taken by silvery Moon.

So, in what remains of this glorious day,

The Sun will ensure that his face will hold sway.

 

Stephen Tomkins
29 October 18
Singapore

Advertisements

The Purple Hour

In the brief Purple Hour,
The Sun’s still down there,
Brushing his teeth
And now combing his hair.
The Moon, all the while,
Is yet in quite a tizzy,
Sipping away
At her nightcap, still fizzy.

And while this one night,
Bravely, faces its death,
It seems all creation
Is holding its breath.
Bathed in the softest
Of Royal purple hues,
Sound, too, is hushed
As the Sun seeks his cue.

The air of expectancy
Finally breaks
As a bright, red-faced Sun
The whole landscape remakes.
Embarrassed, he seems,
As if turning up late
At the door of the house
Of his heart’s longed-for date.

Bashfulness fades
And reveals Sun’s full glory,
Closing the book
On the Moon’s bedtime story.
Day after day,
The same story is read,
While most of us
Lie, fast asleep, in our bed.

Stephen Tomkins
16 June 2017
Perth