July 28, 1993
Sirens fraying out along the road,
coming closer, farther,
round the curve, up on the road
above, behind the trees.
Not one, but several.
Yesterday, the day before,
fires had been burning in the woods.
It might be wise to find some vantage point
and see just where
the beast now reared its head.
It was that time of day
I loved the best.
The sun had barely gone
but the brilliance of its light
still filled the milky orange sky
a cloudless even colored sky
swimming in a haze of color.
The fields of stubble on my left
glowed deep russet gold –
embers waiting to be fanned to flame –
the city on its cliff loomed up ahead
a monochrome, a sepia tint
of rock and roofs and spires.
And on my right the tufo cemetery wall
horrendous 1930s fake fortress tower
drank in the light, redeemed,
and cast it forth a deeper gold.
The fields around were caught in a net of darkling hedges.
Skyline trees gulped up the light
like some black hole.
in this summer moment
but the golden sky,
the echoing fields
and the city
caught in a final burst of glory
before the night set in.