Sunset Russell Willis

by Russell Willis

Hanging Over the horizon Jagged slash in the fabric of the sky Above, the colour of slate Below, the absence of colour but not quite, rather hints of mountain shapes robbed of texture and tint The slash leaks light From Heaven? (Hell?!) Surely not from Earth Notthis light to call it orange is like calling the fruit from Eden an “apple” to speak of it as red reduces life-giving blood to a mere liquid to name it yellow is surely cowardly, as if something that is “yellow” could be awful—as in “filling me with awe” Creation slamming into eyes as waves born in the vastness of the sea breaking upon the shore in times of storm Now God-light slashes through the clouds in sharply defined angles when just before But before the image can be fully grasped, pink no longer a slash, rather, asmudge senses dulled gasps muted to sighs pink hardly the harbinger of chaos much less creation certainly not Hell hardly even pink anymore The slash has healed colour paled Heaven retreating in the face of One more Thursday night.

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