Skyscape

Burning past the ink-and-pen
futility of branches, how a sky these days
can bare its ribs, invulnerable.
My poor horizon, overgrown,
a brittle frame of silhouettes waits only
to be shaken off. Until the final
clarity of darkness, you
defy all grasping, terrible
and serene; my eyes are overfilled
with colours that are not mine.