Pray this pre-sunset doesn’t end. Let the sun float above the horizon for at least a year; three hundred and sixty five days of a calming, burnished twilight, warming our necks and narrowing our eyes.
Passersby would seem to perpetually leave work, head home, stop for coffee, amid long shadows punctuating the footpath.
A breeze would come up at intervals and we would raise our collars, while happy in the thought that the next day was still a moment away. And our mochas would find themselves re-filled when we turned back again. Tables and chairs would likely stack themselves for a time, and by our next mouthful would be laid out again as customers drift in and out, here and there, now and then.
Those who exercise would endlessly loop and lap and lift, working towards that personal best that eludes them. An endless tide would ebb the year through, eroding the flesh and souls of those who dare to swim its waters as we applaud their endurance from the long-lit café nearby.
And then the sun would tire and yawn, and realise the boredom in his slumber, as the springs and gears come to life again, and the moon shakes herself free of the cobwebs and dust, and rises to claim her time to reign.
