Sky over Brighton.

On a clear day,
I can see the influence
of the south-westerlies
on the trees;
all bent in respectful observance
or dance.
It seems they bow away
from me.

The sky is well-painted
soft,
soft bristles,
gentle palette
with November 11th 4 pm colours -
Brighton's flag.

Crystal lines and splotches
up high divided,
white manna, pink hues,
God.

In the lines,
in the colour,
infinity, madness.
Easy blue, endless.
Arc of arm,
now swollen thin,
pulls day down
to night recesses.

Changes, walks.
Subjectless, everywhere.
Fill in your sky.
Your Moon appears,
crested with details.
You're finally here.