There’s a hushed, eerie quietness, restful, unknown.
All sheep are silent, the song birds have flown.
This veil of first twilight, creeping, in peace,
The yawning day’s ending; its happy release.
Who has the job of painting the sky,
Who owns the ladders to reach up so high,
Who knows which colourful palletes delight,
Perpetual artwork designed to excite!
A fracture appears at the breaking of dawn,
A slither of pink cracks; the new day is born.
A blank canvas waits for the master’s sleight hand,
He lovingly tends all the colours he’s planned.
