The sun sets it shining <br />In fine orange oil <br />Drawn from inside beneath <br /> <br />The sun sets it blazing <br />Dark mounds and fine talc <br />Dispersed underneath remains <br /> <br />Then the grey rises <br />And a fine black lifts <br />From the mass left to smolder <br /> <br />The grey drifts into the eye <br />The black upon fine panes, would rest <br /> - And yield to fingers against it.<br /><br />Igwe Kalu<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/viii-drift/
