On Sunday the sun caught fire,
I watched it turn to thick black treacle,
Silhouetted against the smoky skyline.
Small bubbles plopping
And steam from the boiling centre reminded me of winter stew.
Molten hot dripping flames,
Meteors falling into the horizon,
Making permanent black scars,
Etching the sun’s epitaph into the ground.
A wall of hazy heat kept the hawkers and gawkers at bay.
The sun was alight,
Had finally got too hot,
Could not go down other than in flames,
Could not set, for it had turned to liquid,
Edges curling until it was no longer the familiar, immortal bright ball,
It resembled a withered and burnt cup cake wrapper,
Brown where the flames had singed it and warped its shape.
Naive firemen came with hoses and helicopters,
They tried all night to put it out,
Watching their water evaporate,
They would end up fried too,
If they tried for much longer.
I was never In doubt they would fail,
For it was as hot as Scotch bonnets,
The heat engulfed and gathered its surroundings,
Sweeping them into its internal furnace.
Bright red, not pale, the brightest red,
The red of blood,
The red of dead.
The sun set on that Sunday as ash and melted yellow, like 3D paint.
It could not,
Would not be removed,
It has stayed there,
Marking the spot,
Where it dripped to its death.
I’ve watched many a sun set,
But there will be no more,
I will grieve for the sun and its final setting,
Whilst never forgetting the ones I saw before.
Well done. No room for improvement!