Be there nothing in that sky of yours,
That of your own making,
No colour, matter, wind nor force.
Just emptiness beyond that battered cliff,
Beaten by the sea from one,
With kites and creams to the other.
Such contrasting torment of ‘could but isn’t’,
As the black, crimson sky bleeds over;
Yet is still a waste expanse,
For black or crimson, kites or birds,
Wind or wonder, nothing’s heard.
Where loneliness haunts itself,
Imbued with its own solitary ambience,
Which companioning heart beats would dilute.
Opacity equates to naught.