I used to comment – brag, really – that the sky here would catch fire as the sun rose and set, and that skies in Denmark were decidedly tame in comparison. (Not that I didn’t like the Danish sky. It had its own subtle glory, and the light at certain times of day was golden and magical to the point of being utterly unreal.) When I came here, I was disappointed (and a bit embarrassed) to find no fantastically burning skies. The sky here was, in fact, at least as quiet as in Denmark, and without that otherworldly golden light.
But today, as the sun went down, I happened to go outside. I couldn’t see the sun itself, as it and the hills it was sinking behind were hidden by our house; but the sky was painted all the colors of gold and orange and pink. (The pink of sunsets is not the painfully over-used cutesy pink found elsewhere. The pink of sunsets is infused with molten passion!)
A platoon of alien ships rested on the eastern horizon, oval and smooth and large enough to support whole cities. They glowed with orange and pink, sleek and brave and new. A fluffy flotilla of much smaller fighters raced from the west to meet it, tinged with gold and white, anxious and determined.
I went inside to get my phone and write this down.
When I returned everything had changed. To the east were great deserts seen from below, orange and deep pink fading to purple. The brave new ships had fallen under the weight of many ages and become beautiful ruins, still smooth and sleek and oval. To the west, torn shreds of sun like tissue paper, falling upwards into a mass of wispy grayish clumps that clustered hungrily around the light that paints them with fire. A slowly graying purple trail curved southwest, ending in a distant point like an unfulfilled promise.
A few moments later, to the west again: Smoke figures plunging in joyous freefall toward an unseen pink light that will at once kill them and set them free.
I went inside. After barely three minutes, I looked outside and saw everything the same stony grey, the color of ash. All was so completely similar that it seemed carefully arranged, possibly by a malignant, vengeful force bent on speeding the fall of the once-great alien civilisations that inhabited these fading deserts. Their sleek and perfect secrets were now no more than sand; and to this was added the final insult, painting everything with monotonous ash, taking away every last vestige of their identity.
Clouds make me poetic. This is what I saw, and it was marvelous.