The sun sets it shining
In fine orange oil
Drawn from inside beneath
The sun sets it blazing
Dark mounds and fine talc
Dispersed underneath remains
Then the grey rises
And a fine black lifts
From the mass left to smolder
The grey drifts into the eye
The black upon fine panes, would rest
- And yield to fingers against it.
Igwe Kalu
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/viii-drift/
