After Hieronymus Bosch

The day exits through dusk, the sun on hills Angry at its going. Briar and brush, In death, like spring against the twill of fields, Through limbs and leaves amid hunger and hush, Obey the wind on whims of winter's will. Old men sigh in the shade; God wags his beard; And like a Judas goat before the kill, Time buries its head in the wake of fear. The moon hangs in the lull; the blazing spears Blunt the eclipse above the pyramid; Mummies rise in the mind; fey frozen tears Blaze like beacons above the boiling lid; In the light: soul hugs the eternal now, Redeemed, not knowing when or why or how.