Twilight Dirge

In silken shrouds of misted-gray

Dust-fragrant folds caress

The transient corpse of this wee day

As it is laid to rest

Across blue hill and dusk-cloaked pond

A soulful dirge begins

Drifting from crypts of earth beyond

This vale of mortal sins

And souls, yet cloaked in human flesh

Pause, ere they lie to sleep

As notes of loss and hope enmesh

The song that tunes the deep

The stillness of night’s hollow seas

With farewell tones is fraught

The rise and fall of memories

Resounding in our thought

Into the void of Past it slips

Buried, but not with sod

This Day is gone, from fingertips

Of man, returned to God

© Janet Martin