Pastorale

The setting sun
is like an Amondisc
throwing its waning light
in searching fingers
on oblique mountains
fencing the lake
where purple martens
swoop lazily
and robins offer a paeon
to another day.

The honeyed air
casts an amber glow
over your flesh
mystically
as of some ancient rite
etching the features
of your face
and defining
the slow undulations
of your body.

I cup this image
in memory
now and then peruse it
turn it like a
fabled treasure
to catch the light
of another day.