This Was the Day for an End to the World

The cliffs were woad,
Then pink, then gold.
Day touched the tips,
Then slipped down low.

The grass wore frost.
The air was cold—
At least for flesh
That begs for robes

And feeds on trust.
Not one wave passed
That changed the ways
Light showed up dust.

So much weak tea,
God’s slop-rhymed mess.
Let the sounds be.
They’re tired of us.