Against the lemon sky, an oak,
naked in delicate black lace.
The ancient face of the scarred moon,
early risen above a gable roof, is huge,
hanging like a battered pearl
among bruised peach clouds.
And in the west, banked purple, lit
as though by neon from below,
the sunset spreads its lurid glow.
Janice Windle
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/landscapes-collection-driving-home-in-december/
