Shearwater

The hunter's star
burns brighter than all of the suns in the firmament.
As through the sky he raged
with his hook and blade,
and the world, unmade.
As forests bow
and blacken the air as the canopies burn away.
And the arc-lights fades,
and no gull remains
to repeat its call.
Only now would you long for the ancient boughs,
the moon, overlapping the long white clouds.
And the home life of a love
who will never return again.
No child at all
would wake to the light of a sun that is reddening
like a robin's breast.
And no lioness
boards a last, great hull
on the waves.
The close, that close
on a world that will never return again.
And no sound escapes
from the night to come.