The sky in front of me is pink, as I drive home‚

there will be a frost tonight.

Beneath it the brackened hills lie pinkly rust

And trees stand starkly laced in contrast

I see every distant twig defined, sharp against the pearlescent sky.

 

Not much later, I sit over tea and look west

to where the sky is left creamily gold.

Above, the darkling blue is split by a fading pink contrail;

The garden trees shift and rustle in the wind

And the horizon is lost to the closer lacework of the leafless hedge.