I used to
look
For the
seasons turning
Green
leaves crumpling
Into brown
The air's
Cold kiss,
caressing
Goose
bumped skin
I used to
look
For the
turning
When days
Stayed
under
Star lit
quilts
Taking time
To wake
This year
The turning
Came to me
Those first
leaves
Scuffed against
me
Jolting me from
My
busy slumber
I realised,
Nostalgia tinged
With
sadness
I’d missed
the turning
But the
turning
Had not
Missed me
There is a
Turning, taking
Place in me
A wrinkling,
precursor
Of the crumpling
Though pretence
Still works
for now
There is a
turning
A craving
to cease
My busy
slumber
And waking,
To watch,
In silence
This turning
To feel
again
The still
breeze
Of eternity
Flowing through
Time’s transience
To feel it’s
kiss
Welcoming me
And the bud
Is a prelude
To the rose
And the rose
Is a prelude
To fading beauty
And fading beauty
Is a prelude
To sleep
And sleep
Is a prelude
To the dream
And the dream
Is a prelude
To reality
And reality
Is a prelude
To possibilities
And the possibilities
Of a kiss?
Love’s prelude?
Perhaps
Love’s
Requiem?
Perhaps in the requiem
Of the kiss
There is
The prelude
To love’s
Resurrection
And the resurrection
Is a prelude
To the bud
Light ripples
Into my room
A burglar who
Breaks no glass
A light wave
From aeons past
Now laps languidly
Against my body
A coastline
Of physicality
Erased to
Shadowy illusion
Form fragmenting
Into silhouette
Boundaries blending
With each breath,
After breath
That carries me out
Past the flickering
Last synapse
That dying
Thought, caught
Half formed, then
Unremembered
While in the
Ripples, reality
Disrobes
Discarded
And dreams
Dance across
The boundary
Of illusion
They sit in silence
Beauty once succulent
In its fullness, now
Folded into story lines
Black dresses
Mementos to men
Who were never there
Now long gone
Fingers, unadorned
By love’s symbol,
Made inconsequential
By arthritic knuckles
They sit in silence
Love’s sacrament
Sipped in the cup
Of memories
The scent of his
Shaving soap
His sound, when
He spilled his passion
Their aching bodies
Reminisces on
The pain of birthing
Passion’s creation
They sit, knowing
It takes time, and
Silence to age
The lees of love
