At The End Of The Day

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When the day grows hot and then cold
When the bright yellow ball turns gold
The flies go to rest and the crickets rouse
It's at the end of day when the young gather.

Not to be heard till dawn is the cock's song
All imaginations still rest in the mind's crook
First is a sliver of moon to be seen
And then the old woman's hum to be heard.

The sky now turns dark; twinkling stars therein
Night forms and swallows the day
Little kids race to the miracle's feet
Their minds; blank as canvases, at her mercy.

When the light dims
And the leaves softly dance
The passing breeze sighs and calls
They wonder at the moonlight.

But morning comes and they forget
The dream land traps their fantasies
Maybe it's not a dream land, but where dreams die
Yet, come the end of day and they start again.

Author's BIOGRAPHY
Photo credit: Pinterest.co.uk

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