Scarlett O'Hara

The brush poised above Prague
descended
and announced
the color of the day
Brown was its verdict
not a graceful umber
but shroudlike, carbon centered
dogshit brown

It drifts across the moors
of Petrin Hill
softening St. Michael
who's grown soft enough
one would suspect, dead these centuries
blown to dust
A watery sun at four o'clock
pouts and burns the skin

This yellow sky, colour du jour
all but weeps
This portion of earth turning under
facing away
Embarrassed at its forecast fate
yearning for the dark
For tomorrow, as Scarlett bravely said
is indeed another day