Death: to red lights

Swapping red crayon for green
I proceed childlike to draw
plush pastures ripe for reaping
(Urania a-musing me
with celestial astrology and tides already written)

and like pebbles rolled and tumbled
along the shoreline
I step into self,
the Mockingbirds song

while Zeus (thy Spiritual Father) exhales
hues of yesterday tears
upon a starry canopy and the Morpork
cries repeatedly to silent night
(‘The time is here,
The time is here‘).

(c) A Hannan