A mist has settled like sediment in

the bowl of the hills.  The cold metal sky

rings with frost, cloudless and streaked only by

the vapour trail of a single jet plane.

The plane glints in the sunrise, reflecting

the white hot radiance which pours up from

beyond the eastern horizon.  A chrome

bright moon slips pale and hard and contracting

into the depths of a fathomless blue,

disappearing from the world like the breath

of a departing lover, or a death,

leaving behind no trace or residue.