Worshipping the Sun

Ink-black sky superseded by misty daybreak
The darkness dissipates as we two awake
In the garden we rest our heads against
The hard wood of the trees, listening
To the miniature, bustling worlds within

Blueness and blackness fuse. An imperfect
Work of art. We two do our part
In the garden we dance in ever enlarging
Circles – a kind of sacrament
Dedicated to the dawn

For we are pagans; sinful sorcerers
Worshipping the sun as it spreads itself
Across the sky and this is why
We are destined to die by nightfall,
Consumed by fire composed of dry branches
In the centre of the village square.