The sky is spilling light like broken glass-
the stars of heaven wither as they sink,
like flowers cut and left to die. The last
star falls – unpinned, the sky dissolves like ink.
We cower under falling mountains – end
of all that here is born and breathes and dies
looms larger than my shadow could pretend.
(We have no angels left to hear our cries.)
The dark is deeper than my eyes and long-
er than my arms. But fallen flowers rise
and blaze above the ash; an age of song
and legend burns in their eternal eyes.
Warm wings unfurl like nebulae and then
They stand, far taller than the dreams of men.
© Sheila Roberts