The Scouring

The sky runs red tonight.
The streams that wreathe this little world
Are scarlet.

The bioluminescent grass
Is fading fast.
The fern caps are falling.
At dusk the day’s beginning.
The final day,
Six burnmarks long,
And all of it in dreaming.

The ilkies drift, their herders fled,
Shellstones shed,
And calling songs all silent.
Midnight and the high moon
Is silver.
Its palor lends the day a sickly haze.

The night rivers grow closer now
The sulphur clouds
Will soon be washed away.
Dawn is near and the scouring
Is observed
By one last king.
A world of rich antiquity is gone.

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