Twilight, No Morning Star

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem 

The sunset croons a lullaby to trees

In rows of dark . . . then darker green.  The sun

Goes down on orange blossoms in a breeze

As warm as memories.  Where the boys had fun

As if in team sports never quite conceived,

The orange blossoms and their leaves are lost

To all except the boys now left to grieve

As older men for mothers who have crossed

The sunset long ago to bloomless graves.

They heard the lullaby so long ago

That they are silent in its sound.  The naves

In orange aisles are now a specter’s glow.

  The trees, though, now are also darkly gone

    And never will again see singing dawn.

~ Phillip Whidden