This

Some of the time,
a little after daylight
and just before noon-hour
comes the parcel-piece of the dipping sun:
its unravelling crimson ribbons, the last rays,
are unfurled in smudged magnificence
against the peach-rose sky and
the azure-indigo dusk,
they meld, then melt,
pooling at the horizon,
before twilight
comes by.

All the other times,
I lose track of the day
and years might slip away
tumbling through fumbling fingers
unaccustomed to cupping the seconds of time
and hoping to catch a moment, still,
as it squirms in the palm,
before escaping this
and all mad reality.

But every time,
there is a constant, perched
at the brink of sunset and the end of time,
knowing there is nothing like the beauty
of silent-warm blanket gazes
and slight-smirking lips
that share a joke, a secret,
common centre of gravity,
but above all,
this.