A Walk In A Dying Glory Poem by Oleg Vorobyov

As I stroll down the chequered causeway
With the rolling sunwheel on on my left,
I pick some bits of snug small talk
The passers-by trouble to waft.
The playful iridiscent waterglass,
The ripple holding some jaunt boats,
The joyful folks bobbing their trunks.

The apple of light's touch of whatever its wish
Playing with me hide-and-seek:
Now retreating to cover
Behind a paned glass and concrete of a high-rise;
After a while reappearing in the lee of a floating dome,
Shedding a layer of glow wherever it lurks.

Time to sink in the descendant:
Preciptation of settingward run.

25 minutes' walk, and the shadowy ambience
Sheathes all around and darkens the world:
Just dying glimmer like a thin blue-pink study;
My resonant footfall beating the flagstones;
Diminuendo of scouring cars with staring headlights;
The greenery tipped with a kiss before dying...

So, let's call it a day:
The Creation's work done!