By Juliet Frobisher-Hought
My eyes aren’t trained like a star gazer’s,
So, I befriend stars who would see me
Die with the rising December sun.
I sit with Scorpio and speak of
How Luna’s final phase has begun.
I see Earth’s winter from Orion,
As Mars mimics a robin’s red breast,
And Mercury: frost below its flight.
Venus becomes a holly berry,
That paled to umber with rot, and frost.
I imagine Earth, whilst with white stars,
Who wait for the sun to make me ash.