A shadow, a memory,
crouching deep
in this hollowed bone
of night candles,
waving from among the remains
of something left
in a forgotten hide, lying low,
without scent or sight,
dying unnoticed, while
the twilight crowds trudged on.
So in the morning,
face to the sun,
and the indifferent terraced houses
this procession
turns the earth into brush
and scrub,
scorched earth,
majestic in its dominion.
And all things will bow beneath me
for I am a cloud
marching regally to my throne