Nine Ladies

A wind blows
under this wet sky.
Violet air swirls by,
to show a shimmering blue-green sky.

Nine form a ring.
Facing in, heads bowed.
The bird is dead,
its fire burned out.
Alas!
Silent tears fall.

The surface sky is dry,
and full of strange smokes.
Nine form a ring,
now dead forgotten stone.
Decaying old folks.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.