Beacons

Three beacon beings
live for only a few minutes
in the fleeting winter sunsets
atop a building that blocks the view.

But there,
in yellow-orange-white defiance
burn our temporary truths
about transience and the nature
of return,
the angled glass of yet another
empty balcony, looking over
a broken world in its dry, brown guise,
the highveld dust drawing out
our dream that once more
the sun is sinking,
when really it is the angles
that are rising into light,
the last of our fallen friends,
so full of forgiveness
they flame for a whole moment
before tracking the edge
that is always rising with colour,
the ledge, the golden layer;
going nowhere.

TRACE

The Magic Angle

Refracted