Sunsets

Do you know how beautiful you are to me?
You knock the spots off any simile.

For you there are none - you are the sea,
the pitch, the fixed twinkle map, a pitcher
of shooting lasers pointing direction lightly.

Sunsets have written your name
in inky clouds your shape; and I am your page,
a colour wheel watermark running through veins.

If I am to be, it is of you, an almanac
of words and moving picture.