Burnt Orange

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Silent autumn’s hands are winding,
Curling up others in another sleep –
Sweep me a pyre, statuesque.
Winds come and merge from all four corners,
Finally they meet undanced as yet.

Crisped bronzed fires are set ablaze,
Browned slaves are tossed and cast adrift –
Swept but sculpted, arabesque.
All of the fallen, recipient mourners,
Are deftly ushered, to their kismet.

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Author: Anita Lubesh

I write poetry/prose/stories/short stories/verses for children/sketch/and have 6 chapters of a novel sitting there like that half eaten trifle in the fridge or bottle of Jack Daniels because something makes you afraid to eat it or drink... right now.. I am a proud Geordie from England's northern hemisphere and the beautiful city of Newcastle upon Tyne. I live with my lovely husband who came all the way from sunny California just for me, and my favourite animal, Bobble, our dog. I am a member of Greenpeace and Friends of the Earth and wish we could all do more, especially today, when such a lot is wrong.

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