dark’s peering into day, wonder when the dew’ll lay; time’s slowed as skies turn static, least the hours are less erratic. orange lamps glow outside a misted window; earthy rain’s falling hard but fire’s lit and sky is starred. sometimes mist deceives the eyes: seen silent figures’ quick demise. ocean spits over the pier, almost as grey as the Wear; lighthouse shines it’s steely beam, illuminating the horizon’s seam. heaven’s sealed with wrought dull iron, far away seems unearthly Zion; harvest moon’s not as vague: illuminating an eight-legged plague. crows spectate above and below, you’d be surprised what they know; change leers at every bend, nostalgia seems an only friend. the veil is thinner than before, perhaps open is another door; harvest season’s coming to an end, fields of Elysium this way wend.