A veil of adamantine drawn, a drape across the sky,

a timeless void of vacancy, that turns and with a sigh

confronts the womb of rising day, a birth that with its cry

like infant tears announces years of life those lights supply.

–

It gashes out—a flame of red, a streak of scarlet wine

a dragon scout that’s come to rout the night shade’s grand design.

A soundless crash, the dragon reels as midnight coils twine

and cloaked in cloud, an evil shroud attacks the flaming line.

–

Dragon wars cannot be heard, and so the silent clash

rips clouds apart in noiseless bouts of flame and gain and slash.

And every moment from the sun, a dozen light-beasts flash

as night time slowly draws away, from every brazen lash.

–

And now the fire explodes in shades of pink and flaming gold

the painting frenzy of the dawn, the oldest tale of old.

The once almighty night retreats in greying wisps of cold,

and leaves behind the crisscross lines: to tell of battles bold.

–

Many scholars doubt this truth, this battle of the skies.

They talk of atmospheres and clouds, tell us all the lies

of fantasy are in our heads. But those who use their eyes

will know the point, not just the facts, can make a person wise.