The sunset skies are grey and troubled tonight.

No coppery glow of a fast-sinking glory,

Nor shepherd's delight in this black forecast story.

The cirrus clouds were streaked with dreams this morning,

But tossed in the turbulent squalls of the day

Comes the process of change - revolution's own way.

With a thunderbolt of angry Zeus wrath

There's a rent in the sky and the sun pierces through,

Blending mother of pearl with the silvery hue.

As quickly gone again, that rapier beam,

And the darkness drops round us, curtaining danger.

We're alone with ourselves and the unchanging Changer.

April 1971