by Bob Hume

The gloaming’s light burns purpure in the cold ,
Each cloud’s edge birsles in the day’s last wynd .
Where sun sets , bleezes flicht tae glimmered gold ,
And night looms ower , wi trauchlin day behind .

Each hawthorn’s branch sprangs sprays o tiny spears ;
The breathing field girds up its cloak o rime ;
The owd horse by thon stab shivers its years ,
An dimplit toad squats easy in its slime .

An by my step the lamppost’s rusty height
Begins to flicker oot its first riposte ,
Speirin its way to lift the dool o night ,
The breath o brightness gant in one rough hoast .
Its bleeze o yellae fleers me like a ghost ;
Dae phantoms flee or gethir in fause light ?

© Bob Hume

Bob Hume is a member of Clyde Valley Writers' Group.