The Evening That Is Arriving

Unique, marvellous, dramatised
by scattered backlit clouds and a curated
ballet of woks, blurring traffic, is
an evening, arriving — inevitable, en route,
first conditioning the air into a lull,
then turning the harbour in, cutting,
this ordinary day into contradicting halves;
the sky slowly shipwrecks into dusk

pinkish for a kettle’s final redux, mauve
for silhouettes of tired flocks departing, blue
for a fleet of fruit bat released mayhem, indigo
enough for open hair to sing aloud — there is
this evening descending onto hills, streets, the
lanes besides yours you haven’t yet seen—
pure and seeping effortlessly like a good education,
regular from the outset, sedate in hushing
the sun behind grey bridges; necklacing
curved roads with street lights and elevating
every passing train to the status of an uncut film