Like sodden fleece
on gathered sheep
clouds trundle, dark and low.
Across the sky,
and sun's white eye,
they flock where seagulls go.

I kneel ashore
where dune meets moor,
the wind beneath my scarf.
With pen in hand,
I sketch the land
and, on its pall, remark:

"This autumn day
of ***** and clay
yawns grey and baleen wide.
It makes me miss
spring's briny kiss
and summer's sequined tides.

But as I mourn
and brace, forlorn,
for winter's coming wight,
my soul is soothed
by nature's truth:
'Day always follows Night.'"