Sun sets in the West,
Waving goodbye from his chariot of gold;
The kestrels soar and follow,
In ones and twos like knights of old.
Blue turns white with heat,
Nearest to the swooping chariot’s gleam;
The knights drop and soar lower –
The white bursts into colour from beam to beam.
Wings fall, beat once and lift
Eyes keen look upon the hastening King.
Years have passed and all’s same:
Of this Parade there’ve been many songs to sing.
Wind through its feathers,
One Knight circles effortlessly in bliss,
And I, below, look up
And believe that sky, those colours are his.
So it was when I was a child,
So it is now that I am old,
As the Sun sets in the West,
Waving good bye from his chariot of gold.