Midday is the moment of breath
in the day where the sun stands strong.
Night, where the light is coaxed to death
to rise again to dawn's sweet song.
It hailed, the dawn, from eastern parts.
The sun slowly but surely rose.
Dusk that's the elegy that starts
from east mountains, while the sun goes.
Sky's a lens the sun sees the world.
Clouds spare us from that solid gaze.
The wind sings, and sun's rays are furled.
They mix to paint so different days
Cut even on a clock shaped plate
while we flavour and stamp the date.
OctPoWriMo 2016, prompts from Poets on the Page.
Prompt #1: time