Thick virga trails draperies
Across the horns of the Twa Corbies.
Coincidence shapes the perfect
C of old snow below their obscura
And equally, opposite, in Valhalla,
The remnants of ice fields for retreat into mist.
The world has aged
Because it is human
And because it is so inhuman
That the gaps within the lace
Of imaginary memories
Only grow, blown cobwebs
Sailing in sweet summer storms,
Billowing out uselessly
For hardworking spiders, exquisitely
For fools in the god light
That arranges the clouds
And iron bars of sunset.