Thorns At Sunset.

Thorns At Sunset.

Still. The aura of bright red heralds the perfunctory grief. As darkness steals across the sky, the stalks sway in reverence. There he goes. Sinking. His countenance tells it all- worn-out. No one can tell where he goes. No one has ever been there- the other end of the world, in the horizon.  Some say he’s a tramp, homeless. Others say he’s a wanderer.
The birds come back from their explorations. They call onto the others to come witness the spectacle. A spectacle they behold in awe.  A feast for the eyes.  A beaut, these moments. Others fly across in the foreground, either to bask in his ambience or coming back from their exploits. They wail. The trees whisper silently. The wind treads cautiously.  Everyone takes on a tinge of red. The atmosphere is shrouded in solemnity. The air reeks of the Grim Reaper.
The thorns look on-bemused.
Slowly, he dies out…like the candle light starved of nourishment.

Photo Credit: Nana Kofi Acquah
Tittle borrowed from caption of photo on Nana Kofi's blog post.