The day after the sky fell

buds are folding,
green scrolls
tightening,
leaves
not long full
retracting into wood
that dries
to brittle winter grey.

day is static
with the shock
of change,
early grapes wither
on dry vines.

Seas heave
at the low
water line,
sand dries,
no foot strays
onto dark black
grains.

The moon
loses
it’s magnitude,
face smiles
toothless
and bald
at a world changed.

will the sun rise.
tomorrow

-Dave Kavanagh

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