The world was a bowl
A container of things
With cities at the bottom
Like the abyss turned upside down
Stars blinked back from below
When ancient volcanoes erupted
Orange lava assembled on the rim
Stilled on the cusp, afraid to fall
Down the black wall of the world
But from somewhere, a blue curtain had descended over the flat terminator. It hung further down into a gentler, paler azure, then a hurried, dirty transformation to brown. Why the rush I wanted to ask. As the crescent watched, the brown became ochre, ochre became salmon pink, salmon pink became orange, and orange became fire.
As the moon rose higher, I was afraid to look outside and see something I couldn’t believe I was seeing, and wallow in the madness later as I tried to recall in words the splendour of the sight. What if I couldn’t capture it? I am sure I would have gone insane — twilight on my mind, twilight of my words.
Ah, my luck! The horizon looks scruffy now – nothing worth writing home about. The world has risen to meet the heavens and, in the endless darkness in the distance, there is no beauty left to pine over.