A lopsided and bloodied moon 
		leans over the bay, a large moon,
		a heavy weight to fall on earth.
		I pull my head down in reflex.

		In another ride homeward I see
		Goya’s Colossus punch a fist
		down from a cloud and divide a bay  
		with a silver line into two halves.
		 
		Still riding towards home, I am 
		pummeled by a flood from the sky,
		rain as heavy as bullets, as loud as tanks
		ascending the thin bending roof.
 
		That these are omens I am sure,
		but of what they foretell I have no dreams.
		Yet the living air seems certain to congeal,
		the sword to come, and the hordes to drown us.
		 
				 
				Virginia Walker
				(Published in Oberon Poetry Magazine, 2023.
				

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