You are colouring the frills of cloud
with old ferrous bloodstains.
The swift bundles of frilled cloud
skirt around you as they pass.
Bold and clear, you outshine
all other heavenly bodies.
We are leaving the church where
Captain Moonlight pretended
to be a pastor, exhorted the fold
to be righteous, peaceable, neighbourly.
Then he rode away, unwilling to wait
longer for the gold kings are given,
stole it from the diggings, the poor.
We have been singing Steal Away
and other unaccompanied gospel
the acoustics making us weep.
Now we descend to our midweek-quiet
goldmine - Maccas - to sing in praise
of capuccino, milky tea, and the birthday
of Don, our bass, turning eighty.
Your whiteness makes dirty laundry
of the scurrying clouds, hurrying
to drop rain elsewhere, to leave you
sailing alone, singing of eternity.